


One-shots Intertwined

by DJ_Polish



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Booty Calls, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Hangouts, Mission Related, Multi, Observer POV (no character thoughts), One Shot Collection, Prostitutes, Sandy Shores, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_Polish/pseuds/DJ_Polish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short one-shots around actual GTA V main story missions; born because of my curiosity for the missing details. The chapters follow the chronological order of the main story, and may have slight connections between the chapters. - The Trevor/Ursula tag is relevant only for Chapter 4. The Threesome tag relevant only for Chapter 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After "Friends Reunited", or: 6 Undergound

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was born after I walked around the De Santa mansion as Trevor, and from across the street behind the tennis court, I noticed Amanda doing her yoga in the backyard. She was such a vulnerable target for a shot then, that, yes, I had to one-shot that.  
> "6 Underground" is a hit song by Sneaker Pimps, brought to you by Non-Stop Pop FM.

Two six-packs of Dusche Gold were grabbed rapidly from the shelves after Floyd and Wade infiltrated into the nearest liquor store of Vespucci. They had to drive two blocks to the Palomino Ave corner store, it was still open, stinky homeless-looking guys grouping and drinking by the entrance outside, bottles in hands, downtown skycrapers were sparkling in the distance, far north of the Palomino Ave, and Wade stopped for a minute to admire their Christmas-tree lights before entering the store.

While Wade curiously rambled around in the cheap establishment, followed by the suspicious stare of the balding cashier dude, a tense Floyd poked his arm repeatedly for answers what to buy, and eventually ended up by the register with the two packs of beer. Before paying, he looked at Wade again, nervously, making the cashier dude wait if he should click to register a further item.

„Is that enough for him? What else?”

Wade didn’t look so stressed about the whole shopping at all. „Yeah, yeah, for the next day. He’ll be away anyway to do some business.”

„For the next day?! Wait… wait, but how long will he stay anyway?”

The cashier waited patiently.

Wade hesitated a second, eyeing the adult magazine covers behind the cashier’s back. „I dunno, he’s after some guy he wants to deal with. Can I have some E-Cola, please?”

* * *

The small Vespucci Beach condo was unexpectedly silent when the two boys returned. They climbed up the stairs carrying the weight of the beer packs, and dropping them on the kitchen floor they didn’t sense any living presence in Floyd’s home apart from themselves, especially not of Trevor’s.

On the kitchen counter a ripped bag of potato chips flirted with a molested sausage pack - half of a sausage was missing, bitten. The TV was on, and the screams and cheers of the latest part of the Fame or Shame show was heard on a lowered tone. The figure of Lazlow was skipping playfully over the screen like a rabbit.

The doors of the built-in wardrobe were wide open, making Floyd’s clothes visible, hanging, but somehow rummaged as if they were attacked; on the floor, right in front of the wardrobe, a scandalously stain-covered t-shirt and sweatpants were seen piled, making it hard to decide if their fate is to be washed clean, or going to be forgotten forever.

In the bathroom, where perhaps a toothbrush had been placed by the sink, a meth pipe was found, the glass already turning into yellow-brown colored. The toilet seat was left up. But thankfully, it was flushed this time.

In the living room, the notebook on Debra’s desk was left open, showing a Lifeinvader page. The screen presented the list of all the friends of a Michael De Santa.

* * *

As the dawn was slowly breaking, some street traffic began to buzz in Rockford Hills; gardeners and housekeeper maids arrived at the mansions surrounded by high fences, janitors started to invade the office buildings of the district, and soon the smell of freshly roasted coffee was radiating from a near café that was waiting for the office workers to start their day. The people heading to their work didn’t notice the man who was standing on the high platform terrace of an office high-rise.

He leaned against the railing, about one floor higher than the street level, looking down, or maybe across the street, where a mansion and its garden were surrounded by high shrub fences and the green walls of a tennis court. Indeed, he had a great vista if he wanted to see the details of the mansion backyard; the mosaic contours of a swimming pool, the orange-colored recliners around the pool, even the wide glass back door leading into the house were clearly seen in the morning sunshine.

Trevor crouched and opened a drag bag laying by his feet, peeling the layers off that covered a sniper rifle. Taking it out, he didn’t touch the suppressor and left it in the bag; dragging the grip, he held the elegant weapon with one hand by the level of his shoulder, the barrel pointing up to the sky. He didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings; if any of the pedestrians had looked up, they would have noticed that tall man with a sniper in his hand, but so far, he was lucky.

No doubt he had a great vantage point for what he wanted to do.

* * *

Suddenly he noticed some movement by the house; a woman exited from the building, she leaned down and looked like covering the backyard tiles with something. Trevor raised his weapon to his eyes and peering through the scope, he intently scanned the female figure.

What he saw in the crosshairs was definitely Amanda Townley; undoubtedly her face, maybe a little bit plumper than nine years ago, but her determined features, stubborn little nose and wide eyes; she wore a pink fitness outfit, her long hair in ponytail, and she laid a yoga mat on the tiles. Obviously she prepared to do her yoga routine.

Somehow the whole scene and all her shape and facial expression was the tell-tale about a well-fed life, which started with a morning yoga, went on with shopping and manicure, and ended with an early evening cocktail and a usual boring fuck with a husband. Amanda was spreading her arms, visibly inhaled deeply, and arching her head back, she greeted or praised something bigger entity with her pose. Her face looked calm, at least from the distance of a block and through the distorted lens of a rifle scope.

Trevor lowered his weapon. He didn’t seem satisfied yet, as if he didn’t know everything yet that he came for. His fingers were tapping a little dance on the stock. Since he didn’t hear any screams or yells from the direction of the street below him, or from the back of the terrace where he took his vantage point, it was likely that he wasn’t noticed yet which was verging a miracle.

Amanda was almost done with her yoga, standing in a prayer pose, when someone joined her in the backyard; a male figure exited the house and slowly passed by her, approaching the recliners, hardly seen he held something in his hands; he stopped by the pool and was watching Amanda, perhaps talking to her at the same time though it was hard to tell from such a distance.

Trevor raised his rifle again, pointing his scope to the scene over the mansion poolside. The first thing he managed to see clearly in the crosshairs was a pissed off Amanda who quickly grabbed her mat and towel, and rushed into the house. The man behind her raised his hands with a mocking gesture of surrender – was he laughing at her? – and turned around, walking to the closest recliner, and his half-profile became visible for Trevor.

This was the first moment - since Trevor started his sniping - when his breath hitched. The crosshairs were firmly fixed on a profile with a hawk-like proud Roman nose, thin lips pressed into a line with a sarcastic smirk, and eyes with low furrowed brows ready to become threatening. „There, there, there…” Trevor murmured with an undescribable low tone in his voice as he took a deep breath and stood still, for he didn’t want to miss even a second to observe the movement of his target.

* * *

Definitely it wasn't an impostor, not another guy who took Michael's name, and money, and family, and even his movie quotes for an unclear scheme. It was Michael Townley, looking very much alive; dressed casually in bermuda shorts and open shirt for a comfortable poolside time in a fucking castle. He was even barefoot and held something in his hand that proved to be a cigar and ashtray; Trevor realized this when Michael clamped the cigar into his mouth, and slowly made himself comfortable on the sun lounger, keeping the ashtray in his lap, preparing to light for a smoke.

Trevor stopped breathing for a second and his lips slightly parted as his gaze was fixed on the man who enjoyed his lazy morning hour with a kind of audacity. Michael lit his cigar with the pleasure of a gourmand, with soft and slow motions of his fingers, that played a little unhearable melody on an invisible harp. He put aside the tray then, leaned back, closed his eyes and expelled a puff of smoke.

Trevor suddenly spun around, crouched on the concrete floor leaning his back against the railing, and with gasped breathing, he fumbled in the bag next to him. His gaze became hazy, his eyes looking even darker than usual when he grabbed the suppressor, and with quick, firm squeezes he rolled it onto the end of the barrel. He didn't give time to himself to think; he took a position, peered and aimed. The crosshairs met on Michael's skull.

And then he waited. And aimed.

He stared at Michael for the longest moment through that cursed scope. In the meantime, Michael had put down the cigar by the ashtray and just lounged, lazily, and somehow impertinently moving his bare toes playfully. Trevor stared for one more moment at those toes, and then, like giving up, he lowered the rifle with a desperate yell and a hit to the air. “Fuck it!”

And right at that moment, as if Michael knew, he stood up, left his lounger behind and carelessly entered the house.

* * *

It was almost noon when Trevor was driving along the Bay City Avenue, the sunshine blinded him, but he didn't care much about the other cars on his way anyway. On the passenger seat next to him two full paperbags of Up-n-Atom burgers and stuff were waiting to be served to someone. The sniper bag was tossed on the floor under the dashboard.

While manoeuvring the wheel with one hand, he tapped his phone screen and called a number.

“Hey, Ron!” He cleared his throat loudly, and as he spoke, behind a usual dark mood, a hint of a further frustration could be lightly heard. “I stay in Los Santos for a week or so with Wade. Or more. I'll call you when I finished.” After a pause he replied. ”Yes, I found him, and no, I haven't killed him yet, but I wouldn't bet on a long and happily forever life of his if I were you. … That cocksucker who thought he could fuck me over!I'll gut him alive. But I want to talk to him first and see his fucking face when he meets me… And Ron, I'll gut someone else, too, if TP Enterprises loses contact with Oscar, fucking find him, he don't answer my calls.” He cut a corner as he reached the parking lot next to Floyd's house and slammed the brakes.

He hesitated a bit checking his contact list if he should have made another call, but decided not to; he quickly caught the burger paper-bags and with heavy steps, like holding the weight of something much more than burger bags, climbed the stairs. “Hey, Floyd, Wade! I've brought some lunch! If you have no booze in the fridge, I'll rip your ears off.”


	2. After “Fame or Shame”, or: This Mystic Decade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fame or Shame is a mission that left me unsatisfied at the end: this is the first day T and M meet after a decade, and after chasing Lazlow, they just part and go on separate ways? Luckily, there is a tiny part of dialogue during mission when Michael offers a proper "catch up" beer later to Trevor, so, that's how this one-shot was born.  
> "This Mystic Decade" is a hit song by Hot Snakes, brought to you by Vinewood Boulevard Radio.

Michael leaned against the door, resting his fist on the frame, tilting his head as if waiting for an answer from the other side. He heard only sobbing at the moment.

The De Santa house suffered from a tornado, a thunderstorm and an aftermath tsunami when Tracey and a little later Michael returned home from the Maze Bank Arena and Michael tried to „work it out” with his daughter. Tracey accused him of being a dumbass psycho, a jerk, and an unleashed killer, too, for attacking Lazlow; in return, Michael's brows furrowed, that hard look flashed in his eyes and he yelled back about a stupid little shit who made herself ridiculous and pathetic unless being protected from herself; Tracey screamed for not being treated as a fucking kid; they ended up very soon by the two sides of Tracey’s closed bedroom door.

„Hey, Tracey, come on, let’s make a deal.” urged Michael as a last attempt to make her open the door. The shade of a negotiation in his voice hinted a promise of a compensation, or an excuse, even perhaps a regret; but he received only an eery muffled tone of a desperate female voice, half-crying: “You take everything that I like away from me...” That made him stop.

“Oh, then go fuck yourself...” mumbled Michael pissed off, as he left Tracey's door and descended the staircase. In the kitchen he poured himself a drink, then after a glimpse of noticing Amanda joining him, he poured one for her, too. Amanda hesitated to touch the glass.

“How did he find us?”

“That's exactly what I'm gonna ask him when I meet him again.” he replied with a sour look as he raised his glass of whiskey and nodded a cheers to Amanda. She didn't look pleased by the answer and her inspecting stare made Michael burst out.

“You look at me like it's all my fault!”

“Of course I look at you like that, how should I know what you do when you go out at nights, you come home at dawn, you have weird phone calls, and you keep a pistol on your nightstand again! You don't wanna tell me, fine, but you think I'm a fool not to see something's going on?! Michael, just please... don't do that shit again. You promised!”

“I don't, all right?” Michael shrugged angrily. Amanda took the glass and emptied her drink, then after a pause she asked:

“So you're going to meet him?”

Michael picked up his iFruit and began to search the options. “Yeah, shit, I promised him a beer for this evening. I had to. I'll handle him, okay? I try to.”

“It sounds volatile, I don't like that.”

“Luckily I don't give a shit what you like.”

* * *

A few hours later – it was almost dark, the street lights already lit, the high-rises of the horizon illuminated, but a pink touch of sunset still lingering on the sky – the automatic front gate slowly slid open for an arriving truck that was parked in front of the garage door. Trevor slipped out and by the time he stepped on the stairs of the entrance door, Michael already opened it.

Michael had changed clothes, wearing now a light grey suit, obviously ready to go out; he opened the door wide before Trevor, letting him in, but with a side glance, examining him from head to toe, from the legs of his worn jeans to the sides of his almost clean t-shirt – maybe he was considering if Trevor wore weapons. At least he, Michael, did.

“Unfortunately, Amanda's had an appointment for this evening so she's not at home, and Tracey hates me for destroying her showbiz career, so she arranged a sleepover at a friend's. “ he explained to Trevor as casually and naturally as he could, after a nine years' break of conversation. “What do you want to drink?”

Trevor stopped in the foyer, running his look all over the staircase, the paintings on the walls, the small statues on the console tables, the potted palms, and took a deep, sad, consoling breath. Michael noticed that he scanned the interior, and with a bit of a discomfort, but also with some pride, he offered him: “I can show you around if you want.”

Trevor nodded, slowly trailing the tip of his tongue around in his mouth, hesitantly staring at the ceiling skylight above the stairs. Michael now already sensed something coming - something that had to be dramatic, erupting, rough and glass-breaking. In short, with a little side-shrug of his neck over his shoulder, he looked like being prepared for no good. “Okay, so, this is the living room... and the kitchen, but you already saw the kitchen today, huh? Mostly Amanda did the decoration and furnishing, I just wanted my fucking home system for watching movies... you know me, I still love that shit.” Michael was watching Trevor as he rested his gaze on the family portraits decorating the walls in the room, and he nervously pressed his lips. “Come, I show you the garden.”

* * *

They were standing side by side on the poolside terrace, illuminated by the dancing lights on the surface of the pool water. Michael was explaining with wide gestures, how he had had the new tennis court built, in spite of Amanda's doubts, and he seemed to be clearly proud, although Trevor's speechlessness slowly began to erode his ease. From time to time he glanced over Trevor's face, as if trying to find out what was in his mind, and after finishing the praise of the tennis court, describing the disadvantages of the surrounding car traffic that made the house very noisy, and the difficulties of the implementation of the sprinkler system, he just stared at him, almost warmly, and finally lightly touched Trevor's upper arm with a fist, pushing him gently.

“Hey, buddy? … So what do you think?” Trevor seemed to get awakened by the touch. He looked at Michael for the first time as if he wasn't a stranger but someone who he had known before.

“Now that's beautiful, Michael... it's beautiful... fucking perfect, a big happy family, and all, just like in a fucking movie, starring happy little Mikey?” He paced around, looking up to the windows with a strong disbelief in his eyes. “You know, everything so fucking fits here, everything so fits into this damned picture, I can see only one thing not to fit in, and it's you.”

Michael almost opened his mouth to reply but Trevor interrupted with a hand gesture as he resumed.

“I never understood you dreaming about this Vinewood bullshit but I knew you wanted this, whoa, yes, you always wanted THIS, but Christ, you are not a fucking porn producer, Michael – you've been a predator, not a fat house cat, by everything that is holy.” He raised a finger pointing at Michael, silencing him when he noticed he wanted to say something. “Unless – unless! – you want a complete disguise; for that, it's fucking perfect. My only fear is that one day you will drown into your swimming pool just because of fucking boredom, and you will end up floating like a murdered character from your beloved shitty noir classics, but hey, that would complete the picture, huh?”

Michael's look hardened as Trevor finished his speech; his lips pressed tight. It wasn't clear if he just decided to ignore the insults, or he would punch Trevor in the face in the next minute. Trevor didn't miss at all the sight of those pressed lips, and the lurking shadows of fury in those blue eyes. He stepped closer to Michael, threateningly opening his palm before Michael with all five fingers erected as exclamation marks.

“You know, the only thing - the ONLY thing - that keeps me here, and not leave you behind in your pathetic cliché existence, wishing you were dead again, and forgetting you, you fucking liar, forever, and letting you drown into your kale juice and fucking pool is that I believe that you – you are in game again... You have a new crew, don't you?”

Michael's look had instantly changed: from insulted to teasingly innocent; from personal to business.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” replied in the perfect calm tone of business. Trevor's eyes flashed with satisfaction, just like he heard absolutely what he expected to hear.

“Hell, yeah, you have a new crew, and you are waiting for your cut after that jewellery shop score. You think I don't know you, or I don't remember anything, for fuck's sake? What do you think, how I found you, you asshole? You, with your dumbass movie hero attitude and quotes?”

Michael's lips parted slightly as his eyes were firmly locked on Trevor's. For a second, no clearer sign of acknowledgement was needed than their eyes staring at each other; for a breathless moment, a spirit of peace bonded them together, unexpectedly, something that they both rushed to break again as fast as they could.

Trevor retired back, and grumbled, in a somewhat raw and at the same time conciliatory way to Michael: “You know what, invite me out for a beer. Though I doubt you know a place in this plastic shithole of a city where one can be wasted properly. I'll drive.”

* * *

“Sooo... you have a contact then? I mean, this whole witness bullshit protection or what. You have a Feds contact?”

“I don't wanna talk about it. Yes, I have a contact.” They were sitting in the window of a rundown chicano bar somewhere in La Puerta, not far from the Vespucci Beach. Trevor had already drunk his fourth beer, while Michael was still holding his first bourbon; the bar was safely dark inside, dimly lit by iron wall sconces, in the background a TV could be heard buzzing low, vibing the Weazel news. The bar was mostly empty, the remaining guests of the night were drinking by the outdoor tables, smoking.

“Yes, but something doesn't add up here, Mikey, because, you know, if you have the Feds checking on you, how can you take a fucking score?” Trevor gently clinked Michael's glass with his bottle, as if emphasizing his point.

Michael made an impatient gesture with his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Knock this shit off already, I didn't take any score, I told you. Listen... my whole life is fucked up since I retired. You only see the mansion and stuff, but man, fuck, if you knew... The pension I get from the Feds is enough for shit, Amanda's spending habits fucked up our savings, the whole house is mortgaged, every fucking day can become a repossession day. If that's not enough, my kids hate me, Jimmy's doing nothing all day, and I'm not sure if that's not better than Tracey, flashing her panties to porn guys and TV show hosts, and maybe doing worse things that I better not to know. Taking all this shit, the last thing I want to do is adding a job to my problems!” He grabbed his drink and took it in one shot, then swallowed, looked up to Trevor, and laughed bitterly. “Even my boat was stolen. You know what, that hit me harder than all the other things. What a pathetic old fuck I am!”

Trevor blinked at first, Michael's burst-out seemed to surprise him, his eyes became distant and cold as he listened to him, but in the end he started to keep nodding, slowly, with disbelief, almost scandalized.

“Jesus, Michael, you haven't changed a bit. It's even worse. Of course I know that your big happy family and your dream house is fucking fake, you asshole – it doesn't even need a genius to realize where Amanda is right now with her “appointment”. Jesus...” He gulped a sip of beer. “And you only get a hard-on with a boat. A boat!”

“Oh, fuck you.” Michael murmured and fumbled for his phone, checking the time. “I must go home.”

“Nah, nah, nah, Mikey, it's okay, come on, I'm gonna take you.” Trevor by now had become drunk enough that his offer was accentuated with a brotherly touch on Michael's wrist, but Michael stood up and shook head.

“I call a cab. Thanks. So... how are we? Are we good?” He peered curiously into Trevor's face.

“I wanted to kill you.” said Trevor bluntly and spontaneously. He was just staring at Michael, the drunkenness and perhaps something below that washed any sense or ratio away from his look. Michael was anticipating some further statement, or confession, but Trevor didn't say more about the topic, just waving him away, he let him depart: “Whatever. I'll call you.”

* * *

Trevor felt like a cold and hard wall was pressed against his back – and against his pistol tossed into the waist of his jeans - and since he was half asleep, that was definitely very uncomfortable for a bed, or a sleeping bag or whatever. Besides, something wet had soaked his pants on his ass, and gradually he began to realize that he might sit in a small puddle, and the real fucked up thing about it was that it chilled him. He coughed up and that awakened him.

He was laying wasted in an unfamiliar backyard by the trash containers; the backyard was surrounded by stores, possibly, they looked like service entrances and rear windows of storage rooms. By the street side, a few motorcycles and trucks were parking in the darkness, a cat was sneaking by the walls hurriedly, but altogether, the backyard was only shared by Trevor and the communal trash container that supported his back in its own solid way. Trevor's hand landed in a puddle, he coughed again, and as he tried to lift himself into a sitting position, he kicked into a beer bottle, it clinked and rolled away.

He was somewhere in the Vespucci district, not far from the chicano bar he spent time with Michael. He spent time with Michael. Michael Townley. He was alive. He wasn't a decomposed body in a grave. He was warm, with flush, and flesh, and breath in his lungs. He met him today.

He made a vain attempt to sit up with a stagger. As he turned his face to the night sky, taking deep breaths, he slowly began to cry, letting his whole body shake with it. He whimpered to the sky as protesting against a harm, against being hurt deeply, against a crime that couldn't be undone. His pain eased soon to a sobbing, and he looked like comforting himself again for a nap. He bit into his own hand as he curled himself on the ground. That silenced him, and it didn't take much time to faint unconscious again.


	3. Before the Merryweather Heist, or: Little White Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my actual playthrough, I purchased the Pitchers bar for Michael using the cut he earned from the Vangelico heist. As Michael, I check on the business regularly in my game, and this is how I noticed that certain Weazel News van, parking there a few times. That gave me the inspiration for this one-shot, and of course, all the hangouts that I've had in this relatively cloudless period of the story.  
> "Little White Lie" is a hit song by Living Days, brought to you by Radio Mirror Park.

When Michael returned home one afternoon and advanced to the living room, dropping his keys on the console table of the foyer as passing by, he noticed a stranger lounging on the sofa in the middle of his very home; a man, wearing a slightly worn black blazer, jeans, his feet in dirty boots resting on the white fabric.

“Trevor?”

It wasn't unusual lately that Trevor popped up around the house, although it was always accompanied by his phone call, inviting Michael out, or picking Jimmy up to hang with him. It was new for Michael that he entered the house without being invited, but he composed himself to look matter-of-factly as he approached him.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asked casually, with a friendly tone.

Trevor, leaning back against the pillows, held a fashion magazine in his hands, and while browsing through the pages, he was sketching moustaches and cocks on the pictures of fashion models with a pen. He looked bored but quite relaxed, considering all the circumstances, which was also unusual. He glanced at Michael.

“Good to see you, too, Michael! I'm waiting for darling Amanda.” He flipped the magazine and the pen to the floor and looked around as if searching for something. “Fuck, I need some shit very soon. No chance you keep some harder stuff in your house, I guess...?”

“Amanda?” Michael's attempt of looking matter-of-factly failed as he underlined his question with a dumbfounded gesture of hands.

“Yeah, yeah, I was just passing by and found her by the pool. We have been... chatting a bit.” saying this, Trevor took a teasing glance on Michael, but a sparkle in his eyes implied something more malicious. “She offered me a game of tennis, and she has gone upstairs to change to tennis clothes. I'm waiting here for a fucking hour!” He spread his arms with an angry gesture. “But hey, I can't wait to conquer her, you know, a challenge, just me and her! face to face! a fucking duel! You should thank me to drag her out of her fucking yoga for a real sport. You can join us to watch, buddy.”

After a speechless moment, Michael shrugged and replied trying to find again the friendly tone he used minutes ago. “Whatever you say, good luck with that. Careful though, Amanda is well-trained.” Something must have come up to his mind as he resumed with a sour smile. “I paid the fucking money for the best coaches, after all. Shit.”

“You paid money for what?” asked Amanda as she appeared behind Michael, wearing her short tennis skirt, with rackets in her hand. She clearly looked tense and uneasy, like she had to do a job that she really didn't want to do, and as she passed by Michael, they exchanged glances; Michael's dumbstruck glance full of questions with a raised eyebrow, Amanda's glance radiating a “don't even ask” eye-roll.

“Amanda, at last!” Trevor jumped to his feet. “The fuck took you so long, you didn't have to shave yourself from head to toe just for me, all right?” and he impertinently stared at her thighs revealed by the miniskirt. “Now come on, before I fall asleep. You join us, Mikey?”

Michael retired, reaching for the cigar box on the side table. “Nah, I'm skipping it. Have fun, guys.”

* * *

After taking a shower, mixing and drinking a green juice, and checking the news on TV, Michael walked out to the pool-side terrace and he was able to hear that the “duel” was still going on. Either Amanda's victorious shouts were heard, or Trevor's yells of excitement, playful threats or disappointed curses. After a while the heated flushed couple, swinging their rackets, rubbing their necks and faces with towels, arrived to see Michael sitting on a lounger, tapping his phone screen.

“Hey, Mikey! I kicked Amanda's ass, so I'm the winner to keep you.” Trevor's harsh, triumphant shout was immediately followed by a grin. “I'm joking. I keep ya only for this fuckin’ evening.” Suddenly he quickly pulled his sweated t-shirt over his head, let it be dropped on the tiles, and crouching by the pool, splashing the water, he washed over his neck and bare chest to cool himself down, his wet hands stroking over his face.

“Trevor, I allow you to use our bathroom, would you?” stated Amanda with a slight irritated tone in her voice. She was standing next to Michael, putting down the rackets and the towels on the closest recliner. Michael pretended not paying any attention to those two.

“Nah, nah, nah, I'm fine! I'm fine!” He stood up, shaking the water drops off of his upper body, adjusting his crotch. “I fetch my clothes and we can go. Michael! Why are you looking at me like that, I said, we can go! Like, now.” Lifting his palm, he waved gestures to Michael to get up, as he entered the house for his clothes.

Amanda sighed. “Michael, would you do me a favor and take your fucking friend out of the house?”

“Blame yourself, darling, wasn't it you who invited him in?”

Amanda's face distorted into a sour and stressed expression. “He just walked straight into the garden. What would you expect me to do? Call the police?” she asked sarcastically.

“Very funny.” Michael slid his iFruit into his pocket and nodded to her. “We gone to hang out. No idea what time I come home.”

“As usual, darling.” replied Amanda with a high twittering tone, as she always did when she wanted to conceal – or maybe, rather to express - her irritation.

* * *

“Christ! Michael, Amanda is still in a fucking good shape. She almost beat my ass. Is she fucking with that yogi prick that I met at your house?” Trevor visibly felt himself wonderful; he leaned back comfortably on the driver seat of his actual jacked car, half-lying, resting his hands on the wheel with ease, as he was cruising the streets of Vinewood, with Michael sitting next to him. He was in a chatty mood. “She must be fucking with someone if she flies so high. Don't tell me that yoga and kale juice does that, buddy, ‘cause I'm not buying it.” He took a cautious side glance on Michael, and he didn't disappoint.

“Mention my wife's name again in the same sentence with fucking, I break your nose, you hear me?” Michael's voice was definite, final and gravelly. Trevor was silenced for a minute. He turned a corner for the direction of Pillbox Hill, and looked at Michael then back to the road. “Where do you want to?”

“You asking me?” Michael laughed and his voice sounded much easier this time. “Hey, bro, I thought you had your plans.”

* * *

Either it was a revenge from Trevor's part, or he had other considerations, they ended up by the entrance of the strip club; it was almost dark outside, the purple and pink neon lights of the club were reflected on their parking car brightly, painting it to look magical. Along the wall, in a less magical way, groups of dudes were smoking and hanging, not the least subtly eyeballing every newcomers who entered the club. Trevor eyeballed back, and before entering, he touched Michael's shoulder and mumbled and excuse to his ear. “I’m doing some business here, pal, go ahead, five minutes and I'm yours again, cupcake.” Michael, heading inside, still heard him outside as he addressed a young guy in black tank-top and slider hat: “...What do you have?”

When Trevor joined him about five minutes later, Michael noticed the difference at once. Trevor's eyes were just... sparkling. He held his head high like a fucking Vinewood movie star, he walked along the bar with a movement of splendor and glory, like he owned the place, heads were turned for him as if people sensed his vibe. Michael was leaning against the bar, sipping his first drink, receiving polite smiles from the bartender girl, when Trevor arrived, ending his short glorious red-carpet walk, accompanied by Michael's undeniable admiration. “Hey.” he said to Michael in a deep tone of voice, as he elegantly leaned against the bar by his side, and he was saying this short greeting like it was the most meaningful and most overwhelming confession to Michael. Or to anyone, actually.

Michael couldn't help bursting into a small laugh, snickering. He looked definitely amused. “What did you sniff, you crazy ass, you look like your head is blowing up. Must be a serious shit.”

Trevor stared back at him with all the power of the world in his eyes. “It is, Mikey, and not only my fucking head blows! This party is already the time of my life, buddy, it's official – just another pinch from this shit and I'm gonna love this city, which ain't gonna happen, of course, but right now, I would mercifully let everyone in Los Santos to suck me off, fucking hipsters included, and after that I would confess eternal love to all and every one of them. And you, how are you down there, cupcake? There is more shit where that came from, you know.” He raised an eyebrow with anticipation, but Michael declined. “Thanks, I stick to my own poison.” He raised his glass to show his bourbon to Trevor.

At this moment, from the crowd behind them, a woman passed by them, certainly working for the club, since she was wearing hardly anything apart from a purple tight corset, bikini panties, stockings and high heels. She was swaying her hips as she walked slowly, but she recognized Michael, stopped, and flashed a smile for him.

“Hey, baby! Good to see you. You haven't called me for a while, I missed you.” and she smiled sweetly as if she really meant it.

Michael turned to see who was speaking to him; when realized who was it, he got embarrassed, and awkwardly shrugging his shoulder, he tilted his head for a second. “Hi, baby... sorry for that, I was too busy with... some jobs to do. Missed you too.” He glanced over to see Trevor's reaction, and the stripper realized that Michael had company.

“Sorry to hear that, sugar. Well, you know where to find me if you want.” She touched his shoulder for just a bit, before flitted away, hunting for other possible clients.

Now it was Trevor's turn to burst into a howling kind of laugh. “Now that was beautiful, Mikey. Does Amanda know? Anyway, whatever....” In his high merciful mood, Trevor generously tapped Michael's arm and stopped mocking him. “Come, let's do what we are here for, and toss beaucoup bucks for these gorgeous friends of yours.” He adjusted his crotch with the grace of a royal highness, leaned to Michael's ear and whispered to him with a tease: “I promise I won't fuck yours, all right? Great tits, by the way.”

Michael quickly punched into his shoulder, knocking him back a bit. “Fuck you, T.” But he didn't seem to be really pissed off now. He almost smiled when they left the bar for the stage on the lower level.

* * *

They were enjoying the show by the half-wall rail around the stage; not side by side, as both of them had wandered around the place first, amused by the choice range of strippers swinging their hips around, offering their lap dance service, and they somehow ended up at the opposite corners of the rail, leaning on it; halfway between them, in the center of everyone's attention, the dance pole was shining, illuminated by the reflectors, polished to be shiny by so many strippers sliding on it before. The actual star of the show took the pole between her legs, and arched deep back, spreading her arms, like a swan; Trevor tossed some bucks into the stage pit lazily, and glimpsed at Michael at the opposite end of the pit, then paid attention to the stripper again.

Maybe Michael tipped her more, or maybe he didn't, but still, at the second part of the performance, when the stripper left the pole and began to dance closer to the rail, she decided to dance for Michael. The waves of her movement curved her hips even more, made her waist look even more lean; she smiled at him seductively while her palm was running over her own body, she rocked her hips by the rhythm of the loud music, then turned her back to Michael, spread her legs wide, and looked back at him over her shoulder, offering the sight of her opened ass.

Michael smiled and tossed tips again, obviously lost in what he was watching; his smile was an adorable sight of self-satisfaction, as if he believed that he deserved well all the attention that he received. He sent a smile to Trevor over the stage pit when there was a moment he became visible behind the stripper. Trevor was staring right into Michael's eyes. It wasn’t the stripper he was staring at.

Michael had to take a second glimpse to be sure about that, after all, the area around the stage was dim, colorful gobo lights were dancing everywhere, it was hard to even recognize a face; the music streamed by the absolutely untalented DJ was throbbing in the ears. Michael himself wasn’t sober either; the bourbon was already working in him. But it occurred to him somehow, that after the stripper returned to the catwalk, and made Trevor visible again for him, that Trevor's eyes didn't follow the dancer’s body, they rested still on him, with a heavy, burning, piercing way.

As a first reaction, Michael tried to focus on the performance. The hot dancer girl’s movements, that had made him so engaged and pleasantly aroused so far, swaying and rocking, opening and closing her thighs rhythmically, couldn't made him resist to flap his glance back to Trevor's figure. He was motionless, still, a dark contour in the darkness, one of his shoulder a little higher than the other as leaning on the rail, his look that had been sparkling before now changed, like the flames gradually turn into ash, smoldering with an orange glow.

As Michael’s focus on the stripper failed, he chose to stare back then, provocatively. He wasn’t a man who didn’t respond to challenges; he peered intently, locking his eyes on him; as if they were some kind of predators meeting in the wilds, accidently, eyeing each other from the distance, trying to find out who was the alpha. Trevor seemed to be more lost in his thoughts, but kept staring at Michael with smoldering eyes, and it was Michael who in the end, gave up the battle. He slowly flushed, skin of his forehead and cheeks visibly turning to rosy; he tapped the top of the rail once or twice as he finally left it, heading to the bar with the walk of a lazy old feline hunter, looking careless even if he missed to catch his prey.

* * *

“What's wrong?” Trevor asked Michael when he found him later outside of the entrance, behind the columns of the club facade, where the dealers had been camping an hour ago. Now it was abandoned, apart from the bouncer standing by the door. Michael was pacing, smoking a cigarette.

“Nothing.” he blew out the smoke and looked at Trevor as he was ready to depart. “Will you drop me off in Vinewood? I want to check something before going home.”

Trevor looked like being hit in the face by his request. “Michael, Jesus, we have just come, don't be such a fucking downer. I just persuaded two gorgeous ladies inside to join our asses back in the VIP section, and you would fuck it up?”

Michael took a sip of his cigarette, its tip glowed up, a tiny red spot in the night. He side-glanced at Trevor and shook his head. “Sorry, T, not in the mood. I'm too drunk for that. Let's go.” Trevor angrily trailed his tongue around his lips, while studying Michael's face, but eventually he shrugged.

“Your fucking wish is my command, my general. It's fucking great.” he hissed and advanced towards their car.

* * *

The city was buzzing around them as they drove towards Vinewood; hipster crowds gathered around gates of movie theaters and stand-up comedy clubs; loud music radiated from rundown bars and upscale lounges, and the first hookers appeared by the sidewalks.

“Speaking of general...” Trevor broke the silence between them, the first time since he started the engine. ”I leave for Sandy Shores tomorrow. I'm working on “borrowing” a cargo chopper for my score. I'm gonna call you when it's done.”

“Ah, yeah, your score. Have you called Lester?” Michael showed a moderate interest, as if he was not really convinced about the seriousness of the subject. He was eyeing the road. “Turn left here... I told you I'm not in without him. Now straight ahead and left again.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, sure as fuck! I already have the submarine, my men alerted, case board in the Vespucci condo, shifting the fucking chopper and we are golden to go! No shit, no heat. Happy to cut your protegée kid in, I saw him doing well in Strawberry the other day – man, you two get along so well that it gets on my fucking nerves.”

“Stop here. Reverse.” interrupted Michael, as they reached Clinton Avenue. There was something in his voice that made Trevor forget his score plans. “What?”

Their car stopped near the corner of Clinton Ave and Alta Street; they were in the filthier district of Vinewood, home of dubious bars and cheap junk food restaurants. Michael leaned forward a bit as he was scanning something across the street. Trevor followed the direction of his gaze and what he saw, was a bar with a shameless huge “Pitchers” board on the front. It must have been popular since it attracted quite a traffic; young well-dressed guys were smoking and crowding by the entrance, like waiting for their dates to arrive. A little farther from the entrance, but still by the bar, a Weazel News van was parking. It looked like no one sitting inside although it was hard to tell for sure because of the smoky window tint. Michael's eyes were fixated on the Weazel News van, but he fumbled for his phone as well. “Park somewhere farther, where I can still see that van.”

“What's that? It's a gay bar, Michael, what the fuck are you...”

“Yes, I know, it's my property. This is the third fucking time when I see this same Weazel News van parking by my bar at night, and fuck me if I like that.” Trevor looked at him astonished. “You are fucking kidding me, right? You own a gay bar in Vinewood?!”

“Yeah, well, you see, it was an investment...“ Michael began to explain with little convincing gestures of his hands, as casually as explaining a juice recipe. “I was told... My accountant told me it was a good investment, and well, yeah, I bought it... needed renovation, so it was a good bargain.” While gesturing, he was swinging his phone in his hand. “But that's not the POINT... the point is, that someone is fucking around my business, you hear me? and I don't like that.” He tapped his phone opening his contact list and chose a name, while Trevor, gaining back his composure more or less, picked his shotgun from under his seat, checked it and slid it back.

“Hey there, Luke, De Santa is here. Are you, by any chance, aware of any Weazel News guys inside the club? Working on a report, doing interview with you, fucking a celebrity in the black room? … I can see a van parking for the third time in front of the bar and that may scare off the VIPs... Yeah, I thought so... I'm not an idiot, bullshit, no doubt it's a cover.” Michael glimpsed at Trevor who leaned back in his seat and looked like he began to feel greatly amused. “What did you say? They have come for the weekly juice?”

Trevor made a gesture with his hands, showing that according to him, it was expected.

“Fuck that you didn't tell me about that, Luke, we are paying juice? to whom?! Who do they work for?” Hearing the answer through the phone, Michael's heated tone of voice suddenly chilled out. “For the Madrazo Cartel? Serious? Okay, so, how much? I want to know.... But that's the same as my legit income! What a bullshit!” Michael with a wide angry gesture closed the call and stared blankly on the hood of their car. “I pay extort money to Martin Madrazo.” stated with repressed fury, as if he declared himself to be a loser.

“But Mikey, who doesn't? Even I pay juice for the Madrazos after my weapon trading shits. This is the second rule of business. Paying extort is part of the fucking budget. The first rule is, by the way...”

“Oh cut that shit, will you, T? Let me think.” Michael was studying his iFruit screen, sweeping the list of names with his fingertips. “What if he doesn't know that the bar is mine? I'm sending him a text.” And he started to keep clicking fast.

Trevor stopped scratching his belly under his t-shirt, his look peered on Michael with a frozen facial expression. “You are doing fucking what?”

“I'm sending a text to Madrazo. Maybe we can make a deal.”

Trevor stared at the dashboard in front of him, then raised his hands, slowly, like he wanted either to palm his own head, or to silence Michael for a bit. “Now, wait, wait, wait, so, you have Madrazo's number, I mean, you have him on your fucking contact list? Michael, could you give me a fucking break for moment?” Michael stopped writing and looked back to Trevor with a slight impatience.

“So, Michael, but tell me if I'm not following you, so, there is a stripper you keep fucking, and you own a gay bar in Los Santos, and you know Martin Madrazo, and you make deals with him. Michael, listen, why don't we say goodbye to each other for now, and call it a night?”

Michael shrugged his shoulder as he resumed his texting immediately, and he replied to Trevor as he was still watching the screen in his hands: “Oh come on, T... welcome to Los Santos, I guess.”


	4. After the Hitch Lift #2, or: She's Comin' On Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to pick up Ursula, the random event hitchhiker girl, by Trevor in each of my playthroughs. She is often described as a "female version of Trevor", and on GTA wikia I even saw her mentioned as a potential ideal partner for Trevor, but I never shared this opinion - far from that. This one-shot has been inspired by my different point of view.  
> "Comin' On Strong" is a hit song by Broken English, brought to you by Los Santos Rock Radio.

“Here's my number, will you call me sometime? I get so lonely out here all by myself.”

The hitchhiker girl slammed the door as she got out of Trevor's truck. She calmly circumnavigated the Bodhi, passed through the gate of the picket fence surrounding the house and walked towards the porch where the entrance door could be seen. If it was entirely her house alone, then certainly she must have been lonely most of the time: it was a two-level high huge farmhouse type building, with porches around on both levels, windows with shutters prettily painted forest green, surrounded by a yard and vegetable garden; although, by the second look, one could notice that it all had seen better days. The paints were peeling off, the yard looked untidy, and the whole property made a slightly creaky impression.

Trevor's eyes followed the girl as she was heading to the porch, his look resting especially on her ass, as she was slowly walking in her comfortable grey pants, holding her hiker backpack steadily on her back, her ponytail innocently swinging above that.

After she disappeared behind the door, Trevor stopped the engine. From where he was parking, he could see the lighthouse over the bay on the horizon, he could see the cliff not far from the parking space of the front of the house, and could hear the constant murmuring of waves of the ocean below the cliff. Otherwise, the area was abandoned and silent, without inhabited buildings for miles.

Trevor rubbed his face strongly with his palms, looking like hesitating before doing something that he considered to do. In the end he adjusted the crotch of his jeans, grabbedthe ignition key and got out of the truck, scanning over his surroundings. From north, darker clouds inescapably began to gather behind the hilltops.

* * *

Ursula answered the door and found Trevor standing on the threshold, leaning his arm against the doorframe, neck and head tilted forward a bit, with an impertinent smile on his face, implying more intimacy than one could find proper and also implying that he was aware of that.

“Gentleman caller.” he said, with a tone as if no other explanation was needed. Maybe he was right because Ursula's face brightened up; she gazed into Trevor's eyes with a slight disbelief and a definitely pleasant surprise. She tilted her head as well, lightly touching the door edge with it, and she brushed away some locks of her brown hair that had fallen into her forehead and eyes.

“Any chance to sip tea on your porch?” added Trevor, studying Ursula's facial expression, and the innocent question suddenly sounded obscene. Ursula's gaze became fuzzy, her eye color darkened, and she took a quick sipping inhale of the air. Then she opened the door wide, reached her arm to grab Trevor's t-shirt and pulled him inside, into the foyer. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, quickly and unexpectedly, catching him off-guard, and she shrilled like a kid in joy:

“Oh, you're such a nice man, mmm, love your smell, I love you!” She rubbed herself against Trevor's chest, hanging on his neck, burying her face into the fabric of his clothes. “You can drink tea with me, you can poison the birds with me, you can stay for dinner! You can be very hard on me if I deserve it! I'm gonna deserve it! Will you be my daddy?” She looked up to his face then she began to rub against him more frantically, pressing her breasts to his chest, dragging his arms to guide them around her hips. “Will you be my daddy? my daddy! my daddy...” and her voice faded as she was kissing over Trevor's neck and shoulder and up and down his chest.

Trevor was speechless for a moment, daunted by the unexpected outburst of the little weirdo, but he regained his composure fast, lust started to burn in his eyes and whirling in his blood; when she began to cover his neck with small kisses, Trevor firmly grabbed her ass, picked her up to hold her with her thighs wrapped around his hips, and quickly looked around where to toss her.

He was standing in some kind of a foyer; close to an arch leading into a kitchen which was almost as big as an industrial one; on the other side of the foyer a kind of a living room could be suspected to be found. In the back, a wooden staircase was visible, leading upstairs. For an aroused Trevor, with an enthusiastic girl leaning on his shoulders, widely chewing on his ears, while her spread lap was pressed against his groin, any destination was too far. With a kick of his foot, he closed the door behind himself, stepped forward and pressed Ursula against the wall next to the kitchen door. As her body slammed against it, and Trevor's body collided with hers, she cried out and moaned, silenced immediately by his kiss that was forced on her. That was a different kiss from those she started to spill on him a minute ago; his kiss was like a bite into a prey, hungry and eager to control; he intruded into her mouth, plunging deep and causing a mess, while she was whimpering as if begging – for more, or for mercy, one couldn't decide.

Trevor pinned her against the wall with the strength of his own body while quickly lifted the hem of her tank top to expose her skin and bra; interrupting his kiss, his mouth seized the curve of her breast, covered by the bra cup, and sucked it in hungrily, then his tongue wandered over her skin, licking it as if hesitating where to start to eat her up. He was panting loudly.

Ursula dragged his head and encouragingly pressed his face against her tits while she began to breathe irregularly, and she started to mumble in her awe, mumble words that were hardly understood or even heard clearly. Trevor clasped his hands to her hips, and as he lowered on his knees, he unzipped and pulled down her pants and the panties together with impatient grabbing movements, down to her ankles, then released one of her legs, lifted it holding by under her knee and pressed it to his side. “Hmmm just look at that...” he breathed and purred into her neck as he was pressing against her again, stroking over the slit between her legs that was now naked, his thick fingers first rubbing then intruding greedily, even roughly, making Ursula to whimper again like she was scared. Contrary to her tone though, her hands were sneaking between them, fumbling for Trevor's fly and unbuttoned his pants open, with the same enthusiasm as Trevor was nibbling on her neck and ear, and fucking her with a finger between her thighs. She was moaning and looked like melted on his hand working inside her. Her fumbling hands found his hard-on, she pulled it out with squeezing fingers and stroked over his length.

Both of them gasped and their eyes met; Trevor urgently pushed her up a bit against the wall, holding all her weight with his hips and arms around her, pinning her like a butterfly pinned on a display, with spread legs, wrapped around his ass; he thrusted into her impatiently, as deep as he could, not giving her time to adapt to his attacks, and began to fuck her, slamming her body into the wall with each thrusts, hard and fast, making her bounce and moan repeatedly.

It didn't last long though; very soon deep sighs of “love you”-s started to escapefrom his lungs, his panting escalated and he stopped moving suddenly, with a short wave of shiver, moaning into her neck as he came. A last “I love you” was heard very distantly, very hazily, and then silence; even Ursula fell into silence, hanging on his neck, her head resting on his shoulder, lifeless.

After a long minute, Trevor released her on her feet, pulled on his jeans from his ankles, hiding his dick, still sticky with come, behind his fly. Ursula was standing unsteadily by the wall, her back still leaning against, bothered, her top and bra fumbled, being naked below her waistline, wet stains of come on her thighs, her pair of pants on the floor. She was staring at Trevor with a blank gaze.

It was the first moment when Trevor seemed to be unsettled, or looked like he sensed that something was not right. He must have felt it so strongly for a second that he spread his arms with a gesture of a kind of excuse.

“Are you all right, kid?” he asked. “I'm... I'm sorry...”

Ursula smiled back. Blankly.

Trevor adjusted his clothes casually, still sensing something out of order. He waited a minute, but her silence was deafening. “I'll call you.” said it as a goodbye, as he slowly retired towards the door to leave, keeping his eyes on her. Ursula just smiled, and when Trevor finally opened the door to step out to the porch, she raised a hand with a childish gesture of waving bye-bye.

* * *

It was verging unimaginable to call her again, but two days after their first meeting, it occurred to Trevor that he was thinking about doing it; he was staring at his phone screen, where Ursula's name and phone number was saved.

He was bumming in his Sandy Shores trailer that day; Michael and Franklin were preparing that FIB thing Michael called “Blitz Play” in Los Santos; they had to steal trucks, a getaway car, buy masks, whatever, as a setup, all for the sake of those fucking FIB pricks, therefore Trevor wanted to keep as much distance of it as possible. He just needed long-range weapons for the job, and he already had them, and most importantly, it didn't look very promising or profitable, making Trevor entirely uninterested; after the failure of the Merryweather heist, he didn't long for another bust.

It was almost evening; dusk setting over the desert and the trailer park, and a relatively high Trevor lounged in his trailer restlessly, gazing at the television, scratching his belly, playing with his bulge lazily. He needed spicier entertainment. He tapped his phone, and his call was answered.

“Hey. How do you feel about some cold, anonymous sex?” he asked Ursula, with a deep tone of voice, and beneath that tone, some kind of regretful self-irony lurked.

The reply was suprisingly positive, offering a pick-up spot, and Trevor could have felt again that everything was in order, and befitting, and fucking promising again.

* * *

It was Ursula who suggested to do it in her mother's bed.

The house was creepily big; Trevor might have been lost in it without Ursula showing the way. Ursula had her own bedroom, but to Trevor's surprise, it was more like a teen's room than an adult woman's, with single bed and dolls and music box on the top of the dresser. There were guest rooms furnished as bedrooms, as well, either with double or single bed, but they didn't look as dusty and haunted as Ursula's late mother's bedroom. Its interior was arranged as if like she left it when she died and no one touched it ever since; a pair of her shoes placed in the corner, dried-out nail lacquers and half-empty medicine bottles on the vanity table, the top of the console table was decorated with framed photos about long gone family members.

But Ursula looked like being rather aroused by the mere fact that she was fucked right in the middle of her mother's room. She was resting on her back, arms and legs spread wide on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not touching Trevor, who was laying by her side, partly covering her body with his own, laying one of his thigh on her, as he was slowly pushing in and drawing back his dick, fucking her in a slow rhythm. Without touching her in any other way, he thrusted all the way in, paused and drew, not leaving her body though, just circling by her entrance with his head of dick a bit, then slid to the hilt again. Ursula looked hot and bothered by that, and Trevor seemed to enjoy it, too, although not exactly like enjoying sex, rather like enjoying a lazy, easy form of torturing.

They were both naked, their pieces of clothes scattered around the floor. Trevor's pistol was resting on the rug, next to a torn empty condom pack, sharing company with unusual objects in a bedroom, like plies, a pair of garden scissors and a roll of duct tape.

“Ahhh!” sighed Ursula loudly, deeply, clawing her fingers onto the bedsheet, her eyes fixated on the ceiling. “Oh just watch me how I'm fucked... Can you see my thingie fucked, huh? Watch me being dirty... I'm dirty! ...Oh daddy, yes, keep me fucking... make me a dirty little girl! I love you, daddy...” She was shuddering with pleasure, her body rocking in slow rhythm with his thrusts. Trevor made an attempt to crawl on her, getting closer to her face, but she pushed him back. “Ssshh! No! I want her to see me!”

Trevor stopped thrusting for a second to follow her gaze, looking up to the ceiling lamp if there was really something visible for him, then glimpsed back to her brightened, flushed face. “Who the fuck are you talking to, you crazy little ass?” He cupped her jaw in his hand and forced her to look into his eyes, and it seemed that finally Ursula had noticed his presence. It was clear, by the look of her eyes, that she didn't recognize Trevor immediately, but one or two forceful thrusts into her body refreshed her fading memory. Shaking her head, she tried to escape from Trevor's grip, hissing at him: “Oh, don't stroke me... slap me! ...punish me for such a naughty girl I am...”

“Okay, cupcake, playtime is over.” he made the decision after a pause, and with imperative forceful movements, he quickly flipped her body on her stomach, crawled on her back, pressing his hips on her ass cheeks, biting on her nape of neck while grabbing a fistful of her ponytail. As he forced his thighs between hers, he pushed her side of face into the pillows and growled into her ear: “If you scream too loud, daddy will punish you even more, so you won't get dessert after lunch.”

* * *

For Trevor, Ursula could be described as being more enthusiastic than skillful in bed, as Trevor got used to prostitutes mostly, and to the art of their tongue technics, but one thing was undeniably, indisputably true: Ursula was full of creative ideas. So much so, that Trevor, although he sometimes had the urge of deleting her number from his phone once and for all, was captured and couldn't resist to call her; she became a regular booty call for him, as a constantly tickling curiosity around his stomach.

Once, when Trevor visited her driving directly to her house, she opened the door for him dressed as a young guy; she gathered her hair together under a slider hat, she wore boyfriend-jeans, a checkered shirt half-tucked, and boots. She held a baseball bat in her hand. “Johnny is back!” she taunted him with a distorted boyish voice, while Trevor was just standing there, staring at her, partly in heavenly awe, partly dumbfounded. Soon it was revealed that “Johnny” was able to act perfectly “in-character”, when Trevor finally, after some teasing, fighting, fumbling, and heavy petting, managed to pull her jeans down off her ass.

Her other creative ideas were sometimes more unsettling though. It took long moments for Trevor to convince her once, when Ursula brought a knife to bed with her, not to slice his neck around the tattoo “Cut here”, since she was absolutely sure that it was an order for her to do that. She was straddling him at that moment, preparing to ride his cock with a knife pressed against his throat when she seemed to be stopped by the idea. Trevor's persuasion ended with a punch on her hand holding the knife; the blade landed on the floor, Ursula cried out of pain but didn't seem to mind it, she just sucked in her own fist, slapped Trevor in return, then all this incident didn't stop her from a good ride.

Ursula was full of creative ideas, and she loved them all.

* * *

The kitchen looked like it was built for a family in such times when families had five or six children plus the kitchen maid and the gardener; two ovens, one of them proved to be equipped with a built-in grill function, two big industrial sinks for the dishes, the fridge looked like a dinosaur from the good old peaceful times of the 1960s. Trevor found himself by the island in the middle of the kitchen, trying to figure out what he was looking for; it was daylight outside, he stood there wearing only a whitey tighty and a pair of socks. At least, the socks were the same colors. He was in Ursula's house.

It was very likely he got too much shit because his mind was just as blurry and confused as it used to be occasionally when two different shits were interfering in his blood. Or, B version, booze mixed with not-the-right shit, who knows. He had to blink repeatedly to be sure that what he thought to visualize in the bottom of the steel sinks were really dead songbirds, about half a dozen of them, some of their torn-out feathers covering the counter around the sinks. He couldn't be sure it was real. He opened the fridge, guessing maybe that he was coming for beer, but even for him, some of the stuff inside the fridge wasn't identifiable. He gave up, closed the fridge and taking a cup from the shelves, he opened the water tap above the late songbirds and filled the cup with water. He was careful not to let the water soak the little bodies, either they were real or not.

Drinking some water must have helped though because the fog began to lift and he overheard his own phone ringtone from the foyer. He was straying without any haste out of the kitchen, and somewhat accidentally he found a pile of his own clothes, his phone on top of it, vibing.

It was Michael's call and it was a further component to make Trevor feel less hazy. He slowly crouched by the wall and let himself plopped on the floor, sitting with legs drawn up. He touched the screen lazily.

* * *

“Hey, T, it's me. What's going on? Why don't you pick up your fucking calls? I've called you twice already, man.”

“Mmmichael...! Would you just stop whining for a change, why don't you, I don't know, you really got to get outta your funk, Michael.”

“... Are you drunk?”

“...t'ss typical. So typical of you. You are making judgements. You blame me. You blame me as a habit of yours. It's me who fucked up with not negotiating with Lester, it's MEEE who fucked up your day with a job that didn't pay anything, it's MEEE who left you pretending I was dead... oh, whoa, whoa, wait, was it me?”

“T, fuck you, I don't have time for this. I called you to tell we are ready to go. We have the stuff, and the van is due at early morning tomorrow. Can you get your ass to Los Santos? With the equipments?”

“Yeah... yeah, I can. No worries. I'll show you a bazooka as big as my dick.”

“I hope not that small.”

“Fuck you! And Michael, just for the record, I want to see some dough out of this. I risk my fucking life for nothing so far, I need jobs that pay, you hear me?”

“Yeah, I know. I owe you a job all right. I know! I told you that I made a deal with Madrazo, he leaves alone my bar in Vinewood, and in return, he will ask a favor later, if it's a job, it's yours. I'll let him know you're interested.”

“Fuck Madrazo, fuck yourself, and fuck your FIB buddies. We should do our own jobs, M. I'm the boss of my own company, for fuck's sake, not an errand boy for these motherfuckers!”

“See you tomorrow, T. Call me when you arrived in the city. … Oh and by the way. I just want you to know before you figure out and start to mock me for that... Amanda left me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, shit, so, she moved out. With the kids. I mean, I'm not really sure if the kids are with her, because neither of them answer my fucking phone calls, but I'm left alone in the house. She wrote me that she wanted to talk to a lawyer, so... it looks serious.”

The last sentences were followed by a long pause, without any reply from Trevor's part.

“Hey, Trevor? Are you there?”

A sound of a gulp and an inhale was heard from the other end of the line.

“I'm here, yeah. Totally here, sugar tits. Why did she do that? Bunked up together with another prick?”

“Trevor, you know what, I don't fucking care. It's all my fault... I mean, she wrote it was all my fault... I fucked it up. I'm an asshole. I must be.”

“Yes, I know that for sure.”

“Fuck you, T, your emotional support in my difficult time means the world to me! And please don't say any “I've told you this”, and “I've foretold you that” bullshit, okay?”

“I haven't said anythin...!”

“All right, forget it all, I just wanted you to know. Shit. Call me later.”

* * *

“Who was that?”

Trevor looked up and realized that Ursula was standing by the arch of the kitchen. She was barefoot, wearing only an oversized shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and not much else, as if she just picked up something to wear, jumping out of bed. She held a plastic cup of ice cream and a spoon in her hands, and she was eating it, sucking the spoon as the ice cream was melting on her tongue.

“Who is your 'sugar tits'?”

Trevor slowly staggered to his feet, swaying a little and waved his hand dismissively. “No one. A fucking business partner, that asshole. I must leave now, baby, I gotta do a job in Los Santos.” He picked up his t-shirt, jacket and jeans and while dressing, he touched Ursula's face for a moment, pinching her cheek softly. “It's been overwhelming to see you, cupcake. You make an old man very happy, you know that?”

Ursula smiled, reluctantly at first, watching Trevor to pull on his pants and buttoning it, then her smile turned wider. “You know, I'm so happy now, too, that we are girlfriend and boyfriend. You and me, sitting on a tree...! I've never been a girlfriend to anyone yet, or no, once I was, after my mom passed, but poor Tom got sick so soon and he didn't make it. It was so sad! I grieved for him. But you are a much nicer man than Tom was, Trevor. And so silly!” She giggled in a flirty way. “Are you sure you won't stay for dinner? I'm cooking. Warbler soup only, but a soup full of tasty meat...! And bones... and carrots from the garden...”

Trevor stopped for a moment hearing this, as possibly a picture of dead little birds came to his mind like a dream - or a nightmare – from a blurry phase of his previous state. He made a gesture refusingly. “No, sorry, I must go. I'll call you soon.” He hesitated a second, then added: “Hey, pork chop, it could be longer than usual. Promise me, kid, you'll be a good little girl, don't slice the fucking postman's throat, and don't shoot at the hikers passing by your garden again, all right? … Or you know what, be a bad girl, just don't cut yourself. Whatever.”

He checked if his pistol was firmly fixed at the back of his waist, then gave a quick casual kiss into her hair. Ursula didn't kiss back, she didn't even touch him, she only inhaled his smell, and her eyes followed him through the kitchen window as he slid into his truck outside, while another spoonful of icecream disappeared in her mouth.

It was weird, but Trevor was just sitting motionless in his driver seat, and it took about ten minutes for him to eventually start the engine and drive away.

* * *

It happened only two weeks later that Trevor touched Ursula's number on his phone screen again. After surviving the Blitz play, he did smaller jobs for that smug dickhead Weston in Los Santos, and yet didn't see any dough from that, so he decided to check back to the Liquor Ace meth lab and the McKenzie airfield, rather frustrated and restless. As he was riding fast in Sandy Shores straddling a jacked motorbike, he intentionally hit one or two straying coyotes, and destroyed any saguaro cactus or joshua tree with one crash that were so unfortunate to grow on his riding path. He was shooting fast by the rundown Sandy Shores marina building, their frequent pick-up spot with Ursula, and it reminded him of the girl with brown hair in ponytail, hiker backpack hanging on her shoulders, charming little ass and so so many creative ideas.

“Hey, it's me, Trevor. I want to do unspeeeeeakable things to you.” he purred to her, and after a short silence, which wasn't unnoticed by Trevor, Ursula invited him over, so he changed his direction, cut a corner, and instead of riding home to his trailer, he was flying on his bike for the Mount Gordo house on the cliff, by the lighthouse.

It wasn't unusual that Ursula received his visit with a coy and teasing smile, cooing voice, clasping her fingers on his belt, and groping his bulge right at the minute he entered the house. She saved tons of time for Trevor this way. This day she looked pale and maybe thinner a little bit than she had been weeks ago; she wore a tank top and bermuda pants, and there was soil under her nails. “Daddy, you take such a good care of me... I want to play with Uncle T so much...” and she took Trevor's hand, kissed into his palm then sucked a finger of him into her mouth, sliding her lips over the length of it with obscene little moans. A deep pleased purring could be heard radiating from Trevor's chest as he was watching her lips.

“Did you miss me, T?” she asked him, gazing into his eyes innocently. The positive reply was hardly heard, muffled by Trevor's biting and needy kisses on the crook of her neck.

“Come, I want to show you a surprise.” giggled Ursula childishly, and it wasn't unusual either; she was a genius in unexpected surprises, and Trevor loved that. “As long as you don't wear clown outfits, you got me whatever you want.” he mumbled by her ear.

“Wait here until I count to ten! Then you can come upstairs to the bedroom.” she grinned and ascended the stairs fast, with a bubbling giggling haste, looking like she couldn't wait to see his face at the moment of the revelation.

After a minute, a loud “Ten!” could be heard form upstairs. Trevor, after he took a safety glance into the living room and to the kitchen, and didn't detect any change, followed her voice. He already knew the house interior well. The door of the late mother's bedroom was wide open and although he didn't see Ursula inside, he entered the room, expecting her to be there. “Come out come out wherever you are...” he teased as he stepped over the threshold.

In the next second Trevor was flying into the middle of the room smashed to the floor by a hit of something that felt like heavy solid metal, that was punched with vigorous force into his nape of neck and right shoulder.

Lying on the floor, he tried to catch his breath and to see what happened but he had to struggle to regain his sight; the world faded to black around him and he saw small sparkles in the darkness as he was blinking. His hand, trembling by the shock, tried to reach for his combat pistol he wore inside his waist, but the pain in his shoulder made him unable to bend his arm. He groaned and made an attempt to sit up.

When he was able to see his surroundings again, he saw Ursula approaching him, holding a massive garden shovel in front of her chest like a weapon, with the shovel head raised by the level of her own head. Her face, like a stranger's face, emotionless, cold and blank, as if she saw Trevor for the first time in her life. She didn't say anything.

“What the fuck is with you, you crazy little shit?!” yelled Trevor at the moment when he was able to yell at all; he was still breathing irregularly. He slid back a bit on the rug, to gain some distance from her.

Ursula looked perfectly calm and focused. She raised the shovel higher, as if she was preparing to swat an insect or a mouse that had intruded her home. She took a swing for the second hit.

Trevor rolled over as quickly as he could to avoid the blow, but it partly hit him again, although not with a full force; he cried out as the blade of the shovel stroke his elbow and he was writhing with pain, but at the same time, his fury began to flash in his eyes as a sure sign that he was recovering from the shock, the adrenaline started to work in him and the sparkles that blinded him before, now started to transform into angrily smoldering orange heat.

“Fuck it!” As he sat up quickly, his back found a sudden support leaning back against the side of the double bed; his arm swung forward with a combat pistol in his fist, aiming it at Ursula. She must have realized that he had a weapon pointing at her because she seemed to stop her actions and slowly, as if recognizing Trevor, she parted her lips.

“Why do you have to ruin everything?!” she yelled desperately.

“What?! I'm ruining it?! You fucking fruitcake!”

“I hope you enjoyed your little vacation with your sugar tits in the city! I know! I know you met her! And you two... were talking about me... behind my back... mocking me and laughing at me! You two laughed at me! Making jokes about me! I heard that...!”

Trevor became speechless for a moment. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, almost in a normal tone.

Ursula's facial expression changed gradually to cold and determined again. It was obvious that she wanted to settle the things once and for all. She gripped the shaft of the shovel. “I'm so sorry that you have got sick, too.” she said with a distant tone; she turned the blade downwards, and with energetic steps, she advanced towards Trevor, swinging the shovel aiming its point of head to his throat.

It was a reflex, an instinct learned by heart through decades and decades, during innumerable heists, car chases, and shootouts, that his hand – waiting not even a second for Trevor to decide - pulled the trigger. The shovel was dropped on the rug.

* * *

Trevor's walk was still unsteady when he reached his bike outside. He leaned against the vehicle and breathed heavily while he was studying the blood stains on his clothes. He cautiously touched his nape obviously looking for bleeding wounds but his hand was wet with fresh blood anyway, so it wasn't possible to detect if it was his own, or hers. Hissing with pain, he rolled on the saddle, grabbing the handlebars. “Shit...” he murmured and picked his phone.

“Hey, Ron, it's me. Take my truck and drive to Grapeseed, to the road that leads to the lighthouse from the town. I'll be there, pick me up. … I don't fucking care, you dumbass, that you are in the middle of moonshining your shit... get your ass here A.S.A.P or I'll cut your ear off. And Ron, bring some crystal with you. I'll need it.”

 


	5. During "Minor Turbulence", or: Crawling After You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone might have a version of their own, what happened in the Madrazo ranch when Trevor kidnapped Patricia Madrazo. So when Michael and Patricia were left in the trailer during Trevor's Minor Turbulence mission, I tried to investigate; this is what this one-shot is about.  
> "Crawling After You" is a hit song by the Bass Drum of Death, brought to you by Vinewood Boulevard Radio.

“No, no, no, not you. Sit down. You are a wanted man. Stay low... and watch her, okay? She good lady.”

Trevor stormed out of the trailer, followed by an eager, avid Ron who looked like a dog desperately intending to prove his usefulness to his master, and when their voices faded outside as they climbed into Trevor’s truck, Michael lumbered back to the couch and with a sigh he sat down.

He shared the room of the trailer with the hostage Mrs. Madrazo who was sitting in front of the television, her hands tied back, but in spite of that, sitting with calm grace and dignity, even a slight smile was lingering on her lips as she took a side-glance on Michael. On the other hand, Michael perched on the couch with a devastated pose, a dramatic and hopeless expression on his face, rolling his eyes along the interior, then glancing at Mrs. Madrazo, and their eyes met with a moment of unexpected understanding. Patricia addressed him with a kind smile:

“You seem to be more trapped than me, don’t you?”

Michael chuckled without any amusement. “That fucking psycho. I told him to give the files to your husband and to leave the bargaining to me. Hell, no, he had to do it!” He jumped to his feet and began to pace, gesticulating.

”And as every fucking time he don’t listen to me, shit hits the fan. Here we are, trapped both in this shithole, all this is because his fucking ego had to take it over. Shit…”he moaned and rubbed his face as if he wanted to rearrange his thoughts figuring out what he could do now. He suddenly stared at the filthy clutter on the kitchen counters, and moaned with disgust. “What a trash pile… How can one live at a place like this?” He turned his gaze to their hostage again with a sympathetic look: “Hey, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Patricia's bright and serene facial expression somehow seemed to make him worried. She almost looked like being slightly amused by the situation, and it was a creepy enough phenomenon inside Trevor's trailer, in the middle of a kidnapping scenario. Patricia responded in a perfectly calm tone as if they were chatting in the living room of the Madrazo ranch:

“No, he didn't hurt me...” Noticeably she paused for a moment while took a breath. “Actually he was very appropriate. He even excused himself for putting me into the trunk.”

“Whoa, it's my Trevor, all fucking charming and generous! You are lucky still being alive.” Michael seemed to be even more furious by what she told him. “How could he kidnap you without alerting the guards? … Or did he kill them all?”

Mrs. Madrazo began eyeing the blank tv screen lost in her thoughts as if trying to remember what happened; but one couldn't decide for real, if she was contemplating about telling the truth or about hiding some details.

“I didn't see all the things that happened; he just captured me when I entered my husband's study. We left the house through the back door and I remember he knocked a man of my husband's out while heading towards the car, but not much else. I don't even remember when he duct-taped me. It looks like I lost my sense of time inside the trunk.”

Michael leaned back against the round table, half-sitting on it, and was studying her face. He looked like not being able to decide if it was smarter to become suspicious about her version, or to become enraged by Trevor's actions. “And what about Madrazo? Trevor said he hadn't killed him.”

Patricia's look became even more distant and contemplative. Her gaze swept along the windows, the dirty checkered curtains, the empty beer bottles and pizza boxes around her, and finally rested on Michael, somewhere around his shirt collar. She didn't look into his eyes.

“My husband must have been knocked out, too. I didn't hear his voice.”

Michael licked his lips, reached back and grabbed a bottle of beer from the six-pack box on the table. He opened it, took some deep gulps of it, wiped his mouth with a hand, then pressed his lips together tight, as if he wanted to show no sympathy for the woman. “Al' right.” he said, while walked towards the kitchen counters, opening the doors of cabinets one by one, rummaging them as if looking for something that he needed. After a few minutes he had an empty glass in front of him, a half-empty bottle of unidentifiable liquor, and a pocket knife. He poured a drink, and unfolded the knife.

“Now, Mrs. Madrazo, you must understand, that I don't have any intention to do you any harm, do you understand that?” Michael crouched before her seat, almost kneeling before her, looking up into her eyes, with the knife in his hand. Patricia slowly nodded. Michael gripped one of her ankles and while holding it firmly, he cut the duct tape straps that tied her lower legs together. After peeling the strap pieces off her pink sweatpants, he peered into her eyes again, asking her in a tender tone, with cold eyes:

“Do you also understand, that any attempt of yours to run away is hopeless - because you have no fucking chance to run faster in the desert than us - or our cars - or our bullets? Do you understand that?

“Yes, I understand.” replied Patricia calmly, not showing any sign of being scared or threatened; her voice was easy, her tone trustful. Michael boldly leaned closer to her and touching her cheek, examined her eyes. Her pupils and iris looked normal. His thumb that was rested on her cheek first, now slid down on her side of neck, right under her jaw, and was gently pressed against a pulsing point. After waiting a minute or two, both of them staying silent, Michael stood up with a satisfied hum. With his blade, he leaned over her and cut the duct tape around her wrists, too, with care and precision. Patricia's hands were set free.

Michael fetched the glass of liquor, smelled it and – although he made a grimace when its smell hit his nose – took a sip. With his tongue trailing in his mouth tasting and analyzing the booze, he became sure that it was reliable for his purpose, so he offered it to Patricia:

“Here, drink this. It'll do you good. All of it.”

Patricia kept her eyes on him first as she took the glass, then she began to drink obediently.

* * *

Michael was lounging on the rusty, ruined couch on the porch of Trevor's trailer; the afternoon, like a large grungy bucket of water used for doing the dishes of a redneck party, was warm, stinky, and full of filth, surrounding him. He was smoking and he exhaled as much fragrant smoke as he could to neutralize his environment. At least he seemed to enjoy the part that he could tap the loose ash off his cigarette to the floor without caring at all about cleanliness.

His eyes suddenly fixed on the shiny blue sky above the trailer park; one could see an airplane flying high with an unusual angle, descending with a too fast descent rate, followed by a heavy smoke cloud; in a minute, its noise reached the ground level of Sandy Shores. It wasn't flying, it was crashing.

Michael, although he wasn't in a cheerful mood, mumbled under his breath something like this time it wasn't his fault really. Narrowing his eyes, he quickly inspected the plane as long as it could be seen before it disappeared above the Alamo Sea – and by the angle and direction of its movement, it was obvious it crashed into the sea, or somewhere very close to that – and he had to note that this time it wasn't a slim elegant private passenger aircraft, but a much bigger one; it had to be a cargo plane. With heavy cargo.

The incident didn't cause any remarkable turmoil in Sandy Shores. Michael kept observing the dusty roads around the trailer: the locals passed by, drove by and roamed by just like before, as if nothing special happened. It was the second plane crash in the area within 24 hours. Michael looked around expecting any kind of reaction but he didn't detect any. He smirked with a half-shrug, stood up, leaned on the railings of the porch and took a sip of cigarette again. He was waiting for Trevor.

* * *

Trevor arrived about ten minutes later. He was walking from the direction of the old abandoned motel; he came on foot, without driving any vehicle, which was an unusual sight, as if he just finished a nice day at a nearby beach and now he walked home after the swimming and sunbathing. As he was approaching his trailer with energetic, bouncy steps, he could spot Michael smoking on his porch; instead of his suit jacket and shirt, he wore only a white tank top on his torso, paired with his suit pants. Maybe because he felt hot, or maybe he just wanted to blend in, looking like a local hillbilly instead of a suit-wearing city man. Michael looked relaxed from the distance; but Trevor must have sensed something and his eyes were scanning Michael's body all over, trying to decode his body language by watching all of his tiny movements and gestures as he was leaning on the railing, tapping with his foot; as he held his cigarette between his thumb and index fingers; as he pressed his lips together.

When he finally ascended the doorsteps of the porch, Michael finished his cigarette, stomping it out.

“Hey. How is Patricia?” Trevor panted.

Michael stretched his arms as if preparing himself to put a question, and the way he looked at Trevor, with furrowed brows and small muscles twitching in his side of face, didn't promise any good.

“She's inside.” Michael responded, nodding to the direction of the closed door of the trailer. “We have to talk.”

“Yeah? About what?” Trevor instantly switched into his provocative mode. His face hardened and his shoulders became tense, as he and Michael stood against each other.

“What the hell did you do with Martin Madrazo?” Michael's question was followed by a raised eyebrow for a second, then an impatient gesture of hands. “Huh? So? What? You told me 'you had become angry'. Exactly how angry?”

Trevor suddenly flashed him a grin. It was like a wolf flashing his teeth, knowing for sure that he would win the dominance fight against his pack member and would feast on his flesh very soon.

Michael didn't appreciate the sight of Trevor's grin. His face flushed with an outburst of anger, and with a growl, he ran at Trevor, with all of his weight crashing him against the wall of the trailer, right next to its door, quickly pressing his lower arm against Trevor's neck, with his elbow forcing his head turn aside in order to be able to breathe. Either because of the surprise or for other reason, Trevor didn't show any sign of intention to struggle or counter-attack; he only grabbed Michael's wrists, trying to loosen the grip on his windpipe.

Michael with his other hand, cupped Trevor's chin and hissed into his ear:

“That woman inside is in shock, you hear me? She's gone to shock. She had to see something that she don't want to remember, and I wanna know what it was. …What the fucking fuck you did, you lunatic, to scare her to death, huh?” Michael's body was pressed against Trevor's to hold him pinned, his narrowed eyes were so close to his face that they could feel each other's furious breaths. Trevor didn't struggle; the things that he heard made him stop.

“Now, I already asked you nicely.” Michael resumed. “If you want me to ask you rough, be my guest.”

Trevor took a gulp of inhale. “...mm knocked him out...” he whispered as he tried to speak and breathe at the same time. “And?” Michael urged. “And... cut off his ear... a knife.”

Michael loosened his grip on him; he gradually released his jaw and let Trevor turn his head face to face. If someone had observed them from a distance now, they would have looked like being lost in an intimate embrace, leaning against each other, clasping their hands into each other's clothes, whispering confessions into the other's face.

“And?” asked Michael, now in a lower tone of voice, as now he became cautious not to be overheard by Mrs. Madrazo inside. “Did she see that?”

Trevor slightly shook his head. “No... not that part.” He swallowed.

Michael raised his eyebrows again, his gaze locked into Trevor's. Maybe he wasn't even aware that he licked his own lips with the anticipation. “Not that part?! Which part then? What the fuck else you did?”

According to his facial expression, Trevor reached the point when he hesitated to give an answer at all. Staring at Michael's eyes, he decided to wait for him to find the answer to his own question. His hazel eyes darkened into storm-brown. Michael's pupils suddenly widened.

“Did you eat it...?”

Trevor started to writhe with hitching breath, trying to escape from Michael's arms, or from his further questions.

“No, I didn't! I didn't!” he groaned. “I wanted to, but... she entered the room and saw Madrazo and me... and I spat it out.”

Michael blinked. “She saw you to spit it out...?“ Their gazes were still locked, and Michael didn't release him although Trevor gave up the writhing, and endured without any resistance that Michael held him captured, clasping his neck. Michael swallowed.

“T, what's wrong with you? I never understood that. We already talked this shit over twenty years ago! I don't care what kind of stray animals you eat... including your fucking redneck neighbors... I don't give a fuck about that! …But me, I'm a pro thief, and if you are in my crew, you just don't eat a client's ear up... you don't kidnap his housewife in the spur of the moment... and you don't ever ever fuck up my job, you understand that?” He furiously shook Trevor grabbed by his neck, making his head knocked against the metal-covered trailer wall. “Don't you ever dare to mess up with my business again! Do you fucking understand?”

Trevor was shivering as if repressing an urge to rip Michael's throat open, or yield to him. Somewhere between panting and snarling, he suddenly burst into snickering. “Fuck you, Mikey, you know that he had it comin'! He wanted to fuck us over! It was soooo fucking evident! Besides...” his tone became slightly remorseful “...I'm sorry about Patricia, all right? I didn't want to frighten her. Hey, if you think about it, isn't it better for her to be taken care of someone who respects her... instead of that rude Mexican turd?”

Michael looked at him dumbfounded, but at the same time, with a hardly heard chuckle. “You are a fucking psycho.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah, but you already know that, right?” Trevor's voice deepened, something began to purr in his throat, as he teasingly leaned forward, slowly approaching Michael's corner of mouth with his smirking lips. “And you fucking like it, don't ya?” he breathed into his face as if inhaling Michael's scent.

Michael's grip on his nape of neck slammed Trevor's head back to the trailer wall. “No shit.”

Trevor chuckled again, with a smug and provoking grin. “The fuck you're talking about, I can see that you are amused by it. Fuck only knows what you did without me for nine years, seriously. Come on, I'm literally saving you from being bored to death, buddy. Just look at you... one day miles away from Los Santos, with bounty on your head, and you finally start to remind me of a Mikey Townley that I knew decades ago! You bossy fucker, huh?” With tilted head, Trevor made an attempt again to lean close to Michael, this time creeping up on his side of neck, trying to bite or kiss it; he almost touched Michael's skin with his stubbled jaw when Michael quickly pushed him back again, roughly and without hesitation.

“Cut this shit, you idiot. Relax! As if I didn't have enough problems already. Try to touch me again, I'll break your fingers.”

Trevor's knowing, impertinent grin was still lingering on his lips as he stared at Michael. “Uh-huh, really? Then why don't you take your fucking hands off me?”

Michael, tilting his head with a half-nod, released Trevor's neck, he took some steps backwards, then rubbed his bridge of nose. “I take a ride for some fresh air. I don't want to spend more time in this pile of garbage than necessary.” He was heading for the garage when he added: “Ask Mrs. Madrazo if she needs anything, but for fuck's sake, keep a distance from her!”

Trevor was waiting to watch Michael driving out of the yard to the road, and as his car was passing along the metal fence, he yelled at him from the porch: “Hey, Mikey! Bring some takeout home when you come back... Mmmexican food!” and he licked his lips mockingly.

* * *

When Michael returned two hours later, it was dusk and the lamps were lit inside the trailer, their lights radiated through the curtained windows; Mrs. Madrazo was sitting in the rotten old armchair outside, and she was listening to Trevor who was in the middle of telling her one of his tirades vividly, sitting on the ground in front of her. When they noticed Michael incoming, Trevor took a kind of triumphant glance on Michael, as if stating something like “you see? she's not afraid of me”.

Patricia smiled at Michael. “Oh hi. We just started to worry about you.”

“I didn't!” declared Trevor with a harsh shout, pointing a finger upwards.

“How nice of you two... T, would you give me a hand, I have to unload the trunk.”

* * *

“So... what about me taking a motel room for the night?” asked Michael, while opened the trunk and reached for two new armor vests, several boxes of ammo and two warm boxes of pizza.

“Negative, my general. Jesus, Michael, armors?! The ammo was a good idea. No, you can't go to a motel, you have to guard Patricia here.”

“And what you gonna do? There's not enough room for three of us to sleep in this tin box.”

“Chill the fuck out, Mikey, I'll go over to the lab.” Trevor took the armors and the ammo in his arms, and with a pissed-off tone, he resumed quickly. “You know, the lab, the Liquor Ace, my fucking office! As a general rule, I don't sleep anyway. There is a sleeping mattress upstairs, I will spend the night, like, jerking off or something.” He took a glance on Michael. “It's not far from here, so anyone shoots a weapon here, I can run over to save the princess.”

“Okay. However surprising it is that I agree with you, this time I do.”

“I would offer you, Mikey, to come and visit me during the night... just in case, if you feel lonely... but you know, you can't leave Patricia here unguarded.” Trevor's voice was more irritated than teasing while saying that, and just as he expected, he got Michael's “fuck off” response as they were heading into the trailer with the armors and the pizza dinner.


	6. After "Predator", or: Just Don't Feel the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In trikey shippers' vocabulary, Sandy Shores means that... "something happened". Something must have happened, based partly on some side-note facts, and partly on some circumstances. It's up to anyone's imagination, what exactly, from some innocent flirts to... anything else, or more precisely, anything else that doesn't contradict the canon dialogues. This is a one-shot about what might have happened, dancing very much on the edge.  
> "Feel the Same" (or more precisely, Just Don't Feel the Same) is a hit song by Battle Tapes, brought to you by radio Mirror Park.

“Aaah... the wronged party has arrived...” Michael greeted Trevor with arms spread sarcastically, when Trevor eventually returned home, entering the trailer as a triumphant general after a battle won. He looked restless, pumped, but his features radiated something magnanimous, ignoring Michael's tone; he brought a paper sack with him like just coming from shopping in a liquor store. Michael was resting on the couch, playing with his iFruit.

“Christ, Michael, it was self-defense, all right?” Trevor unpacked an unopened full bottle of bourbon, new and shiny, and placed it onto the kitchen counter, then opened the cabinet, obviously looking for objects that qualify as glasses. “It was them coming after me; shooting fucking rockets at us for fuck's sake! and besides, it was the loose ends of a long story that shoulda tied up. You'd been taught to do the same, asshole!” He found a plastic cup that looked like it had been a toothbrush cup a few years earlier, and a polka dot-patterned mug. He opened the liquor bottle and looked at Michael with anticipation.

Michael smirked. “I wasn't taught to do the same, it was me who taught YOU to do the same.” and he emphasized his point with a hand gesture.

“Yeah, no doubt, buddy that even today there's bunch of THINGS you can give me fucking LESSONS about, right?Like, how to fuck over your crew and friends... how to sell them to the Feds...” Trevor struck back with a sharp tone, and he took a hostile glance at Michael; it eased though quickly, as he poured two drinks into the toothbrush cup and the mug. “Anyway. Whatever. We're gonna have a party, and I won't let you be the fucking downer. So either you drink, or get high. Your choice.”

Michael stood up and reached for the cup of bourbon with a disbelieving smile. “A party? Where, right here?”

“No need to be sarcastic, okay?” Trevor gesticulated, swinging his mug of drink in his hand. “One, I can see Patricia sleeping inside there, so no party here to wake her up.” Mrs. Madrazo was really having her night rest inside the bedroom, rolling herself into a blanket. She didn't seem to be bothered by the conversation outside. ”And two, I know you hate Casa Philips, you snobbish prick, so I'll be easy on you, and we go out for some quality time, because, you know, you helped me today, Mikey, to put some people in their place, and I return the favors of my friends, all right? It's on me. And I'll drive.” He took a sip of the bourbon.

Michael half-shrugged but seemed to be almost convinced. He raised the plastic cup to his mouth and had a sip, and the drink seemed to be convincing, as well. “Wait.” he stopped. “Are we leaving her here alone?”

Trevor waved his hands matter-of-factly after putting down his mug. “She'll be sleeping, fucking nowhere she goes. And I warn Ron to watch out.” He gulped another dose of booze, but according to his features, he was less impressed than Michael. He coughed up. “Mikey, you drink this shit to get you off, for real? Fuck me if I don't have better stuff than this.”

* * *

They were both lounging on the couch, sharing a rare moment of peacefulness, two cumbersome size of men, hardly being able to position themselves to sit on that modest-sized piece of furniture; Michael was leaning back against the corner of the couch, sipping his drink, wearing his tank top and a pair of jeans, one of his legs drawn up, resting his foot on the checkered fabric; Trevor was leaning against the opposite corner, also in jeans and in one of his messy t-shirts, trying to lay both his legs on the couch against Michael's thighs, and naturally, doing this, he was repeatedly kicking and harassing him by this little territorial game. He smoked his meth pipe. Michael either kicked him back, or brushed Trevor's ankles aside with a determined but not unfriendly gesture.

It was late night; the door of the trailer was open and the critters chirping their nocturnal concert could be heard from the outside; mosquitoes were dancing around the lamp on the porch, and sometimes, when a car passed along the road in front of the trailer, the thumping radio music was heard as it came closer then faded away. Patricia Madrazo was silently sleeping inside the tiny bedroom.

“I just don't get it. Fuck that, it slowly kills you.” Michael was watching Trevor as he inhaled the white smoke, then put his pipe down to a ragged paper box that had been pulled from under the couch and coughed. “Just look at you. Your skin, these blemishes, you look like shit.”

Trevor growled a sound through his cough that could be a chuckle. After getting his dose by dutifully coughing the smoke deep down into his lungs, he stretched his arms and legs – a new attempt to intrude into Michael's personal zone, this time his lower leg successfully landing in Michael's lap and he didn't brush it aside -, and he visibly felt himself peachy. “So I look like shit, huh?” He seemed to be amused by the idea, even if he kept his usual frowned facial features. “Fortunately, you Vinewood douchebags are fucking beautiful enough for all of us. Unless...” he resumed with a taunting tone, and his foot in Michael's lap playfully poked his belly. “Unless we ignore your disappearing waistline, cupcake. Surely I ain’t no beauty, but at least I HAVE one…” and suddenly he pulled up the hem of his t-shirt and proudly exposed his belly for Michael to see, he even tapped it with his palm.

Undoubtedly he HAD a waist; and Michael looked like he was caught off-guard. His gaze slipped on Trevor’s abdomen for a moment; his skin around his bellybutton was flawless and hairy; his body was both toned and soft at the same time above his waist, and a vertical line of dark hair connected gently his chest and the lower part of his belly that was covered by his pants. Michael looked away, rubbed his nose on the bridge, and nodded: “Okay, I'll give you that.”

Trevor looked like still waiting for something. His eyes were fixed on Michael as if he noticed a change. His leg that was resting in Michael’s lap, became rigid, heavy, and he seemed to press it onto Michael’s lap more firmly.

Michael gasped and quickly turning, he glowered at Trevor, brushing his leg away angrily with a flush on his face. “Whoa, whoa, hey” he barked, “if it's already the party that you meant, I don't want to attend.”

“Would you shut the fuck up, Mikey?” hissed Trevor. He stood up pissed off. “Patricia's sleeping, okay? Jesus, Mikey, it can't be more obvious that you’re quite ready to attend... whatever party it is…” and with a blunt gesture of hand, he waved towards Michael’s crotch. “You don't need to answer that. And actually, no, the plan was to find you some company.” He corrected himself. “To find US some company.”

“What?” Michael's face was still frowned and flushed, but a slight interest started to sparkle underneath. “The fuck you mean by that.”

“You know exactly what I mean by that. Just like in old times, Mikey!... You know, the hookers work around the fast food vendor by the road. Grab a shirt and let's fucking go. I'll wait you in the car. For a minute. Not more! So no jacking off in the shower, okay?”

* * *

Trevor drove a four-door sedan this time and he didn't have to explain to Michael, why. It must have been, very likely, a time travel for both of them, as Trevor was driving slowly, close to the edge of the road, and approached the fast food vendor site by the dusty road, scanning the frame of a woman standing and preening there from the distance. After studying her for a minute, Trevor gently pushed the gas pedal and drove away, further on the road.

“Why not? She was pretty.” asked Michael.

“She knows me.” Trevor replied. “She might blab later to her pals about seeing a city asshole with me.”

After a minute's ride, their car slowed down again. A girl was swaying lightly on her feet not far from the corner of the barber's shop. Since Michael remained hesitantly silent, Trevor stopped the car next to her, and rolled down the window. “Hey, gorgeous.”

The hooker flashed a smile and with swinging movement, she walked to the car and leaned forward to look inside. She was incredibly blonde, wearing shiny tight leggings and a leather jacket, which was small enough not to hide her cleavage. She didn't forget to show that off. “Hey, sugar. Want some company?” she cooed, but she stopped her performance immediately when she noticed Michael on the passenger seat.

“Sorry, guys. I can't go with more than one. That's the rule.” and she wanted to leave them behind at once, but Trevor rushed to make her stop.

“Hey, gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous! My buddy has his birthday today and we want to party. Longer ride, party price, private room. What do you say? Come on, we are cool.”

The hooker seemed to hesitate for a moment, then shook her head. “Nope, sorry, baby.”

For some reason Trevor decided not to waste more time with her, and pushed the accelerator. Michael started to search the glove compartment for something but otherwise looked patient – like someone who was prepared to spend a whole night cruising in a car, listening to the radio, hunting for girls and not really caring about if he really found one in the end or not. His expression was hidden in the dark interior of the car, and he was unusually quiet – both of them were.

“What are you looking for?” Trevor glanced at him while driving.

“I don't have condoms.” answered Michael simply.

“I do.” and as the response came, the car started to slow down again by the edge of the road, near the 24/7 store.

* * *

After several declines – the girls around Sandy Shores proved to be very determined about the “one dude only” rule – Trevor suddenly took a sharp turn noticing a girl by the gas station. Both of them were studying her through the windshield before Trevor scoffed: “It's your type, cupcake.” And without even expecting any answer from Michael, he drove for her. He received only a “fuck you” chuckle from Michael anyway.

The girl looked rather like a hitchhiker than a hooker – she wasn't preening, or swaying, just pacing, looking around, as if hesitating which way to go. She wore a leather mini skirt though on her curvy hips, with a short white jacket, trimmed with fake white fur around her neck and cleavage. Her long brown hair looked like her real one, not like a wig.

“Hey, gorgeous.” Overhearing the usual password, she approached the driver side and leaned forward, her eyes meeting with Trevor's. She didn't smile. Her scent of some cheap perfume surrounded her, and the smell of something else, too – probably weed. “How about having a party with me and my buddy here, beautiful? Longer ride. Party fee. Best bargain of your shift! Come on, sweet cheeks, you can't miss this, we're already in love with 'ya!” Trevor literally courted her, but the teasing tone of his voice made her unsure if it wasn't just a blatant joke.

“What do you mean by a longer ride?” She asked and the honesty of her tone caught both Trevor's and Michael's attention at once; they exchanged glances, and then both scanned her with the certain knowledge that she was hooked on. Trevor nodded, lowered his tone and sounded business. “One hour in a motel room. Both of us, each of your holes, nothing very rough. You get 500 bucks.”

Her gaze was slipping back and forth between Trevor and Michael, trying to figure out if she could trust them. She sighed and took a hopeless glance around the abandoned gas station, but no one appeared who was any better than these two dubious old fucks and their offer. Michael suddenly leaned forward, resting one hand on the dashboard, touching Trevor's shoulder with the other and grumbled to him with ease, intentionally making his grumbling easily heard by her: “Look, T, why don't we move the fuck along and go back to that other babe we saw?”

That finally broke her. “Okay, one G and you have to use condoms all the time.” she replied. Trevor rolled his eyes pretending to consider her offer. “Deal for us. Hop in, gorgeous! No, no, no, not the back seat – here, my brother's lap, next to me.”

As the girl walked over the other side of the car, Trevor took a side glance at Michael and ignited the engine: “You and your fucking tricks, you arrogant turd.” Michael just smirked as he reached for opening the door for her: “My Trevor, the infallible judge of morality.”

* * *

“So where are we going?” asked the girl after crawling into the car, onto Michael and taking a seat in his lap. One of her arms wrapped around Michael's neck, she turned toward Trevor, her back pressed against the door, sliding her legs between the seats, dropping her small purse bag on the floor under the dashboard. Michael held her protectively with an arm, then his other hand landed on her thigh exposed by the incredibly short skirt.

“To the motel of the picturesque town of Harmony!” announced Trevor as he turned the car back to the road.

“To Harmony!?” gasped the hooker. “But it's miles away from here!” Her perfume smelled like a mix of fine face powder and cheap sweet candy; the look in her eyes was partly hazy, partly innocent, giving her a nonchalant attitude.

“It is, if you travel on the highways. Be prepared to experience the by-night-beauties of the Grand Senora Desert, safari route version. What's your name, kid?” he took a hurried look at her before focusing back on the trailers and junkyards that he was maneuvering around. Trevor could catch the sight of Michael kissing into her hair then down over her neck, slowly tasting her skin, and he could precisely follow the way of Michael's fingers coasting up her leg until they met the hem of her mini skirt.

“Becky, but call me however you want.” The girl adjusted herself to sit more comfortably on Michael's thighs. “So we cut through the desert? You gotta hold me tight then, baby, or else I fly through the windshield.” she said, staring into Michael's eyes. Her tone wasn't over-flirty, it still had a kind of sincere ring; but she didn't have to be over-flirty with Michael; he scanned her with hungry eyes already, and his thumb caressed her inner thigh with eager, impatient strokes.

Trevor didn't miss the sight of those fingers; it was burning in the corner of his eye. “Well, for you I'm Uncle T, and this is my buddy, M.”

“Hey.” Michael nodded while gazing into her face with a half-smile. “You ain't doing this for so long, right? Are you new, beautiful?”

“Yeah, you're right... how do you know?”

Trevor, overhearing her question, tried to repress a chuckle, and increased the speed of the car. The sedan was rushing through the mounds of the desert, hitting and crashing to pieces each Joshua trees or cacti that they met. Occasionally coyotes were jumping out of the darkness, hit by the reflector light, and began to flee to the opposite direction for their life. The speed and the off-road car-jumps just forced Becky to press herself more into Michael's arms.

“I just guessed.” Michael smiled. “You look high, what are you on?” Trevor checked them regularly while driving, and he could see Michael unbuttoning her jacket on her breasts while asking her, exposing the upper part of her bra. Trevor's knuckles slowly turned white on the wheel, as Michael's mouth crept on her cleavage and sucked her flesh in with a bite.

“I'm on you, baby.” she laughed for the first time since she joined them. “But anyways I have joints. Wanna share one?” she raised her eyebrow as a kind invitation, and smiled. Michael's voice sounded raspier than usual when he answered: “No, thanks, baby, I'm not a drug guy.” His hand slipped under her skirt, squeezing her thigh gently but possessively.

Trevor cleared his throat harshly: “My buddy here is the old-school type, you know. Tobacco... whiskey... and pussies only.” The tone of disdain, as he added the last words, made the girl giggle; she leaned back spreading her legs a little bit to let Michael's hand slide higher.

“And you, no luck to convince him about the other stuff?” She teased Trevor. Michael, stopping his groping on her body for a moment, turned his head to watch Trevor.

His face remained illegible, frowned as usual, eyes fixed on the road ahead, hands on wheel, when he reacted: “To convince about what? Drugs? Or dicks?”

Becky burst into a sweet laugh as if she just heard a joke. The two men didn't laugh.

* * *

It would be a huge exaggeration to call Harmony a town; basically it's not more than a rest-stop for travelers of the Route 68, with two motels, some stores and custom repairs; the rest is a trailer park only, much smaller than Sandy Shores. When Trevor drove in to the parking lot of the U-shaped Motor Motel, it was quiet, and the neon lights of the motel entrance painted the night to vibe with red and blue. From habit of years it became instinct for Trevor to look around searching for bikers around; he knew that the party would instantly turn into a war zone if they met a group of them. But the lot was abandoned, and there was no sign of parking Lost vans either.

Becky crawled out of the car, followed by Michael who grabbed the bottle of bourbon which somehow ended up to escort them as a fourth member of the company. Trevor found the door of their room first, and after opening it, he made a gentlemanlike gesture for her to enter. He wanted to follow suit at once, but Michael stopped him putting his fist on his arm. “Hey, baby” he said to Becky and handed the bottle over to her. “Get comfortable, we'll be right there with you.” and shutted the door behind her.

He was eyeing Trevor, his curled fingers still resting on his side of arm, and clearly he prepared to say something that was not easy to phrase.

“What?” barked Trevor impatiently.

“Look, T... I know that shit was ages ago, but... you still remember the rule, right?” He made effort to look as cool as he could be.

Trevor sputtered a furious response at him, like a spit. “Man, you and your fucked up rules... You're as pathetic as fuck!” He scowled, raised his fingers to him as a warning, then kicked the door in.

* * *

Becky didn't waste her time; when Trevor entered the small motel room, she was already in the tiny bathroom, leaning over the sink and spat out a mouthful of bourbon; then she took another shot from the bottle, she rolled the liquid inside her mouth and spat it out again.

“Smart girl.” growled Trevor, still looking pissed off, as he stood by the dresser, fumbling in his pockets and tossed down the banknotes of her fee. She walked out of the bathroom, still the booze in her hands and glanced up to Trevor: “You want some?”

“He doesn't.” stated Michael in a firm tone heading into the room, and passing by, he stole the bottle from her hand. “I do.” And while he raised the bottle to his lips, the girl counted the notes and put them into her purse. She brushed her locks of hair behind her ear and stared at Trevor; definitely he was the guy who was paying the bill. “What do you want first?”

It seemed that the insulted expression was washed away from Trevor's face and somewhere between relaxed and lustful, he tugged the girl close, and hissed to her in a raw voice: “Come, find out how this booze tastes with my dick, sugar tits?” And he quickly undid his belt and unzipped his fly, he lowered to perch on the edge of the double bed, and pulled Becky forcing her to kneel down between his spread thighs.

Michael, who never indulged without checking safety first, as a habit, was looking around the small and poorly furnished room; took a glance of the only, heavily curtained window, checked the bathroom, secured the entrance door from the inside, and finally he turned off the ceiling light, letting the table lamps by the bed remain switched on instead.

His look slipped on Trevor again only, when beginning to undress, letting his shirt dropped on the floor and pulling his tank top over his head.

Trevor reclined on the bed, his hips by the edge, his feet on the floor, and between his spread thighs, Becky was working on putting a condom on his dick. Not with her fingers; she wrapped her lips around his head of cock, placing the tip of the rubber on it, and bobbing her head, she slowly guided and massaged it down all over his shaft, taking more and more of his length into her mouth.

Trevor gasped for breath repeatedly, his hands were hovering above her head as if he wanted to touch her hair gently but couldn't, being too distracted by his own awe. His clothes were a mess, his shirt pushed up to his chest exposing his scarred skin, showing his belly and little muscles twitching in it; his pants were rolled down to his thighs, revealing his naked groins.

Michael had to take a gulp of bourbon again of the bottle, and even while the strong alcohol claimed his mouth and tongue, and burned over his throat, he couldn't take his eyes off the sight; he was watching as Trevor's cock slid up and down between those lips; as in his desire his hips were slightly trembling and thrusting upwards occasionally, as he tried to restrain himself not to fuck the hell out of her in the first five minutes; he was watching as he closed his eyes with a sigh and moaned to her encouragingly: “Yeah, baby, somethin' like that...” and his hands still hovering over her long brown hair that flowed over her shoulder, down on Trevor's upper thighs, tickling and stroking his skin.

Michael swallowed, put the bottle aside and unbuckling his belt, he crouched behind the girl and started to peel her white jacket off her shoulders. Becky spread her arms backwards to help Michael undress her, continuing her licking and sucking on Trevor's hard-on.

Michael tossed away her jacket and leaning over her back, whispering her the words: “Come on, baby, let me strip you off...” nibbling on her shoulders and spine, he unclipped her bra and unzipped her skirt. As her breasts were set free popping out, and her voluptuous hips were getting rid of the layers of clothes, leaving only a thong on her hips, Michael was running his palms over her body, groping her breasts, kissing over the line from her nape of neck to the middle of her bare back; he grabbed a handful of her hair, brushed it aside as if he wanted to see exactly what she was doing.

She was still sucking Trevor off; her tongue circling around the head of his dick then taking it deep into her mouth, just to release it again and circling around again. She was softly moaning in-between. Michael, holding her in his arms from behind, just stared at her ministrations for a moment, then with a bold move, like giving up a restrain, he bit on her neck wildly, trailing his tongue over her side of face, pulling her hair back, but not stopping her from working on Trevor; on the contrary, the gentle rhythm of his nibbling followed her rhythm of the blowjob.

Trevor, who so far enjoyed her attention with heavy lids and a head arched back, now sensed the heat of not only one but two persons between his legs; he opened his eyes and he propped himself up on his elbows to stare down. He saw Becky wrapping her lips around his shaft, and he saw Michael, with his bare upper body, embracing Becky from behind and kissing her, his lips on her ear, dangerously close to Becky's lips.

With a sharp gasp, and then an inarticulate moan, Trevor's head fell backward. Perhaps he wanted to yell something, but at first he was only able to groan raggedly. His hands desperately scrambled for a grip on the bed cover, while he struggled to regain his control to take a look again at the couple down between his thighs.

With a humming sound, she licked over his dick again, while Michael took her earlobe between his lips sucking on it, glancing up to Trevor, and their eyes met for a hasty second. Michael caught her jawline, forced her head gently to give her a kiss, his tongue playing in her mouth, then released her jaw to let her take in Trevor again.

Trevor's breathing hitched in such a way as if he was getting close; his ragged groans finally gained meaning and were adding up to a kind of begging.

“Hey, stop it, fuck! - stop stop stop gorgeous - - no fuck no! not yet not yet! - - oh shit - - oh, Michael...”

She slowed down and was ready to oblige, letting his dick popping out of her mouth; but Michael intervened. He suddenly gripped her nape of neck with firm fingers and with a warning tone in his voice he breathed into her ear: “Go on. Go on, finish him off.”

Trevor was quivering under her, falling back on the bed, his chest rising and falling fast with the sensation. Becky obediently took all his length into her mouth, this time her palm cupping his balls, as well, and now tightening her lips around him harder, with playful fingers around his balls, it didn't take more than few minutes to guide Trevor into his bliss.

When he finally cried out with heavy, protesting cursing, coming into his condom, followed by deep sighs, Michael was already sitting in the shabby shell armchair in the corner of the room, taking off his pants and all the rest of his clothes, keeping his eyes fixed on his friend's shivering body, with a smug, almost sick smile on his face. He didn't even control himself not to chuckle loud in the very same minute when Trevor finally fell silent licking his lips.

“Whohoo, T, well, it didn't last long, did it?”

“Fffuck you.” Trevor breathed furiously.

He rolled to the edge of the bed and stood up, peeling off his used rubber of his limp cock, and flipping it on the floor instantly. Without any further haste, he began to remove his fumbled clothes, and as he passed by Michael, he dragged another pack of condom from his pocket and tossed it against Michael's chest, who caught it with a short laugh.

“I've just started, okay?” waved a gesture with his hands to Michael, dropping down all the remaining articles of his clothes, grabbing another intact condom for himself, too.

Becky meanwhile sat down on the bed patiently, shaking back her hair, brushing it over with her fingers. Her eyes followed Michael's hands as he fixed on his condom tight on his hard dick, so she smiled at him and leaned back, expecting him next.

“Take off your panties.” said Michael to her, and both men, motionless, were drinking the sight of her taking off her tiny thong, lifting her knees one after the other so that her thigh was pressed against her breast for a second, then exposing the most round hips that they had seen for a long time.

Trevor, speechless, leaned against the dresser, but then, after Michael stood up and joined her on the bed, took his seat in the armchair, letting his head knock back, stretching his body lazily to lounge, like preparing himself to watch a show.

Michael perched sitting on the edge of the bed, too, but he took her in his arms prompting her to sit into his lap, grabbing her neck with a hand, and guiding her by the small of her back with the other. As she straddled Michael, pressing her bust against his, he whispered something into her ear with a smirk while he began to press himself inside of her, deep between her thighs.

Trevor was able to observe from the chair he was lounging in, how Michael entered her and after a second of a gasping pause, how they both started a ride, Michael thrusting into her repeatedly, holding her by her bottom cheeks, pulling her slide forward and back again in his lap, and how she began to bounce on him with a slow rhythm, with little encouraging moans and sensual sounds. Michael dipped his head down between the curves of her tits, silencing his own pleasured pantings. After a minute it wasn't clear anymore if he knew that he was being watched, he looked so lost in the waves of lust, with his features crumpled by the revelling.

But Trevor was watching them, so intently like he wanted to burst the bed into flames with his look. He saw the line of Michael's lips pressed together, his greedy hands groping her ass cheeks, he saw his muscles tensed in his thighs and hips as he was bucking up under her. He eyed him caressing her breasts with hungry lips, and heard him murmuring dirty words to her, heard her softly chuckling in response, and heard Michael making a yearning, craving noise in return, biting on her shoulder. When his hand reached for his own cock to stroke it lazily, it was already hardened again, twitching with excitement.

He closed his palm around it and trying to moan as quietly as he could – remaining unheard by the couple on the bed -, he began to jerk himself with slow, sensuous tugs, stroking himself in time with their movement, taking deep breaths.

Michael's pace slackened now, and wrapping his arms around her, he breathed: “Come on, ride me – and make it slow.” And he lay down on the bed, climbing backward a bit, keeping her straddling on his dick all the time, reclining on the pillows.

Becky arched her back, pressing her thighs to his sides, and circling her hips around leisurely, wiggling only as much as to keep Michael hard and aroused, but not drive him to his end. She made him let out a deep groan, tightening her little muscles around him, and as an echo for that, a heavy moan was heard from the corner of the room where Trevor was seated.

Instead of seated, he was more like half-lying in the armchair, in a lustful haze, lost and helpless, his fingers stroking firmly his own length. His eyes were fixated on her hips riding Michael.

Becky stopped moving, turned her head to look back at Trevor over her shoulder, and after a pause, she asked him with a low sultry tone in her voice:

“Don't you join us?”

Trevor's fingers stopped their trailing and he glanced at Michael.

Michael opened his eyes just like awakening from an immersive dream, and propped himself on elbows to take a glance at Trevor. Becky was still straddling his cock, her long brown hair messily covering her back, waiting for Trevor's reply. But Trevor waited for Michael's reaction.

It was obvious that he expected an objection, but Michael didn't object. He just didn't. He was gently stroking Becky's skin while staring at Trevor, with an illegible gaze that wasn't explicitly inviting, but wasn't undecided, either – Trevor at least, took it as a wordless permission. He grabbed his intact condom pack and ripped it open.

Becky smiled with a professional kindness as she noted Trevor joining them. She was running her palms over Michael's chest and caressing his hairy skin, she resumed riding him, and when she felt Trevor's body pressed against her back as he climbed on the bed and embraced her from behind, she stretched her whole body, raising her arms, to let Trevor's hands wander over her body wherever he wanted. And Trevor wanted; he cupped her breasts, licked over her neck and pressed his hard-on against her bottom. When Becky realized that, she readily reached behind to take it into her hand, and in time with her riding rhythm on Michael, she began to jerk and tease Trevor's dick. After a squeeze by her, Trevor hissed with pleasure, and picked up the pace bucking into her fist.

Apart from kneeling behind the girl, and hence, slightly touching Michael's legs with his own, Trevor didn't interact with Michael in any way, in fact he looked like he intentionally and carefully avoided that. Regardless, it was inevitable for their eyes to meet; when Michael looked up he saw a naked girl embraced by a naked Trevor nibbling on her skin, grabbing her ripe tits, exciting her hardened nipples with his thumbs, and thrusting into her skillful hand relentlessly – and while doing that, his look flitted on Michael's face frequently, as if trying to hook his gaze into his.

It was a weird kind of curiosity mostly that was flickering in Trevor's eyes, it seemed. It wasn't clear if Michael noticed that, his gaze beginning to fade into something delirious. Their eyes met again, Michael thrust into her hard and breathless, and Trevor could feel his friend's legs shivering with the anticipation of his peak.

Trevor shifted to lie down on his side, beside Michael, not as close as his skin could touch his, but close enough to whisper to him what he wanted to. He breathed the question with an almost unhearable exhale.

“Do you love it when I watch you get off, huh?”

Michael squeezed his eyelids shut and moaned. A wave of spasms rolled over his body.

“Yeah...” He was unable to keep the response to himself.

“Yeah, me too. I love watching you get off, Mikey...” Trevor kept his hand on his dick, constantly giving languid tugs to himself, but it wasn't what he paid his attention to. He focused on the sight of the naked Becky, bouncing fast on Michael's shaft, and the overwhelming grunting noises Michael made.

“...it makes me harder than anything else...” Trevor added, or more like sighed. It wasn't sure if Michael heard that, but something pushed him over the edge and with a harsh cry, grabbing firmly her hips, he pumped his come inside her with erratic breathing. His head fell back on the pillows, he was panting for a long minute, unable to open his eyes.

Becky somewhat found this was the right moment to leave the bed; but just as she began to shift herself to the edge of it, Trevor quickly caught her wrist.

“Hey, hey, hey, where are you going, pork chop? Have I said anything like I'm finished with you?”

She just glanced back at Trevor for the first time revealing a hint of uneasiness in her eyes, but it quickly changed to the obedient professional kindness. She smiled and let herself pushed down on the mattress by Trevor, spinning her on her stomach, shoving her face into the pillows, while he crawled on her back, pinning her down with force.

It wasn't that she was not prepared for doing this; she knew well how to receive a client into her ass; it was just that Trevor suddenly became wild and did it roughly, without caring if he hurt her or not. In the very same minute when he pressed his hard erection against her tight rear ring, he was already inside, impatiently, hilting himself in with a loud grunt, with erratic thrusts, so forcefully that she cried out more than once, so that Trevor covered her mouth with his palm to silence her.

“Sshh...!” panted Trevor impatiently, stopped for a second, adjusted his angle, and slammed against her ass cheeks again, pounding her. “Fuck, you're so tight - - feels so fucking fucking good!” and he buried his face into the crook of her neck. She visibly tried to relax her body to make it easier to receive his attacks, but she still kept groaning and whining, which didn't make Trevor stop or slow down in the least. He seemed to forget about where he was, about Michael resting beside them, he just raced fast toward his orgasm like an unleashed stallion.

But even if seemed to forget about his surroundings, even through the blur of delight and exhaustion, even if he didn't see much else apart from her waves of hair and soft flesh of shoulders under him, Trevor was still able to detect warm skin by his other hand; when he desperately wanted to clasp his fingers into the mattress in the moment of coming, groaning with a howling kind of sound escaping his lungs, his fingers unexpectedly grasped another hand. Through the blur of his mind, riding his peak, he felt the warm, strong fingers of the other hand twining between his own. With the last wave of his orgasm, he had to squeeze it, he had to. The other hand squeezed back.

* * *

He must have slept only few hours when he roused because it was still pitch-black around; Trevor didn't even realize where he was in the first place; then he realized he was trembling with cold. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognized the motel room, the contour of the bed, and Michael's quietly breathing body next to him. The hooker girl must have left hours ago.

Slowly, not wanting to wake him up, he staggered to his feet by the end table and fumbled to find his belongings in the room to check them; both his weapon and his money in the pockets was intact. Noting that, he crawled back to bed, with breathing held back not to make any noise. Michael was sleeping deeply lying on his back, fully covered by a blanket that was large enough to cover both of them, but it looked like the selfish prick pulled it off of Trevor in his sleep.

Trevor glided under, wrapped it around his arms and curled, still shivering. He didn't look sleepy at all as he stared into the darkness; but in the end he forced his eyes shut as if giving himself the order to sleep.

* * *

“So... what happened?”

Michael wasn't awake for five minutes and already he was tapping and clicking his iFruit screen, although lounging in such a leisure pose in bed, still naked under the sheets, as if he didn't have any intention to get up that day. He stared at the screen with a well-rested and calm face, seemingly ignoring the fact that he was sharing the bed with Trevor who was lying on the other side, on his stomach, burying his head into the messy pile of pillows.

A minute ago he moaned out with a dissatisfied tone while he heard Michael playing with his phone, but after overhearing his question, he rolled on his back, glanced at him and playfully rubbed his own chin with a grin.

“It was deliciously yummy, Michael... but next time I want to be on top.”

Michael paused his tappings on the phone, took a partly coy, partly disapproving side-glance at Trevor then without a word of response, he resumed his browsing, making it obvious that he didn't buy Trevor's joke.

Trevor groaned with disappointment. “Arrhh, you fuck, you remember everything, don't you?”

Michael shrugged his shoulder. “Not so much. I was wasted as fuck.”

“You can't mean that I paid one G for the hottest hooker in Blaine County to entertain you, you arrogant asshole, and you don't remember a thing of the whole night? You didn't even drink as much!” Trevor's eyes were glued on his face, with a look clearly implying he didn't believe him.

Michael lowered his hand with his iFruit in it, and after a pause, he burst into a short laugh, with a laugh of tease and taunt. He shrugged a shoulder again, as a gesture of admitting something. “You know, T... the truth is...” his voice became lower, with an almost sincere tone, “...the truth is...”

“The truth is, the truth is... what? What's the truth, you notorious liar?” barked Trevor.

“The truth is that I'm getting too old for this shit.” Michael replied, and somehow, his tone sounded almost honest, but undoubtedly unhappy. “I ain't twenty no more.” He looked straight into Trevor's eyes.

Trevor blinked with anticipation. “What the fuck you mean by that?”

Michael seemed to hesitate if he wanted to answer, and eventually he just shrugged. “It means nothing. Come! I'll show you the spot on the map that I found yesterday where you can hijack that military hardware truck without any heat – easy-peasy. Come on, man, I don't bite.” he addressed Trevor, as he was obviously hesitant to scoot closer to him in order to watch the iFuit screen together. “You see? A totally abandoned part of the dirt road – no traffic, no houses, no witnesses.”

Trevor's shoulder was pressed against Michael's, as both of them stared at the tiny screen, Michael's fingers scissoring a zoomed look on the part of the map.

“You lay sticky bomb traps, act quickly and you're golden. What do you say? Easy, huh? Shit, what time is it? Man, I'm dying for a coffee. Umm... T...” he glimpsed at Trevor who was already by the door of the bathroom. “Thank you.” he made a quick gesture of hand, a bit awkwardly, his face flushing. “For the entertainment.”


End file.
